


Chaos and the Calm

by TotallyJeannius



Series: Tangled up in knots someone else tied [5]
Category: Resurrection (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Coping, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Dynamics, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Meet the Family, Mild Language, Miscarriage, New Year's Eve, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Series, Repressed Memories, Second Chances, Sexual Content, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 61,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotallyJeannius/pseuds/TotallyJeannius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the clock races towards midnight, Brian Addison finds himself looking back on his first year in Arcadia and wondering whether the end of the year will also mark the end of something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrapped Up in Clover

> This afternoon, I couldn't decide between a Texas burger and a tuna melt. But my life made sense, you know? And now, I know exactly what I want, and my life doesn't make any sense. And I was doing fine this afternoon. I was doing great! That was me! It was me, then. And now I'm with you and I don't know what happened . . . I mean, I was actually worried that I'd already met the woman of my dreams at the dry cleaners or something, and I was too busy to notice. But then you show up, and I realize that that's not true. Because you're the one. You are everything I never knew I always wanted. I'm not even sure what that means exactly, but I think it has something to do with the rest of my life.
> 
> — _Fools Rush In_ (1997)

_If you dig a little deeper_  
_Way, way, way, way down into your soul_  
_You may find a way to sweep her off her feet_  
_Let the evening come and go_

     Coming home alone to an empty house was not the way Brian Addison had pictured this evening going. Not by a long shot.

There is upbeat music blaring from the next-door neighbors' party, and even with the expanse of the large backyard separating him from the festivities, he can clearly hear the raucous laughter of revelers who are looking forward to watching the Waterford Crystal ball drop in Times Square, then dancing the night away and catching the first sunrise of the New Year.

 _That should have been us tonight_ , he thinks, scrubbing his hands over his face.

If he hadn't made such an awful mess of everything, he and Margaret would have walked through the front door hand in hand after a romantic candlelit dinner, both of them slightly tipsy on champagne, undressing each other as they made their way to the bedroom, all the while making corny jokes about ringing in the New Year with a bang and about how they could easily outcompete the noise of the exploding fireworks. Right now, the two of them should be giggling like a couple of silly drunks as they fall into their bed, and he should be watching the light from the fireworks bathing her irresistible skin in a constantly changing kaleidoscope of colors as they completely lose themselves in each other all night long. Then, lying in each other's arms afterwards, their bodies completely spent after hours of making passionate love together, they would have finished off the ridiculously expensive bottle of champagne Alex had gotten for them, drinking straight from the bottle. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel her warm butterfly kisses all over his chest, can almost taste her sweat-slicked skin on his tongue as he explores the taut muscles of her abdomen. And he's suddenly and utterly overcome with nostalgia for all the things that hadn't happened tonight.

The prospect of kissing her at midnight was something he'd been looking forward to for well over a month. But instead, the bottle of Dom Pérignon is still sitting unopened in the refrigerator, leaving him to wonder how much sweeter, how much more effervescent the champagne would be if he were tasting it on her kissably soft lips and on her delicious tongue as it slides against his own. And he's sitting alone on the patio deck, staring at the pair of ice cubes at the bottom of his empty Old Fashioned glass and trying to convince himself not to uncork the Speyburn 25 and down his third glass of the evening. The single malt had been a gift from his two older brothers, and as he cradles the bottle in his hands, his entire body aches at the memory of him and Margaret on Christmas morning—the two of them wrapped in that yellow blanket in front of the fireplace, with her sitting in his lap and him tucking her soft hair behind her ear so that he could nibble on her earlobe as she poured each of them a glass.

"Merry Christmas, my darling," she'd said, handing him his drink. Her breathtaking azure eyes had sparkled with such affection and joy as she gave him a beautiful smile, followed by an equally beautiful kiss.

That glowing memory, which he and Margaret had created together and for each other not even one week ago, feels bittersweet now. After all the awful things they said to each other tonight, he's suddenly paralyzed by the distressing thought that he might actually still be back in his apartment in California and on the verge of waking up to find that he had simply dreamt this entire past year. Setting the bottle down beside him, he runs his hands through his hair and tries to loosen the painful knots that have taken up residence in his neck and shoulder muscles.

The music from the party next door dies down, and it's quiet for a few blessed seconds before a slow song starts to play. The opening chords hit him like a Mack truck, and he manages to stop himself from sending the empty glass crashing into the fence. But just barely.

"Of all the goddamn songs in all the goddamn world, it just had to be this one," he mutters, his jaw clenched painfully tight.

There was a time when this song would have brought a smile to his face. Now, he can only shake his head forlornly as Pattie Boyd's melancholy description of this song echoes in his ears: "the most poignant reminder of all that was good in our relationship, and when things went wrong it was torture to hear it."

He doesn't want to think about all the wonderful nights he and Margaret have shared with each other. He doesn't want to think about how wonderful she had looked tonight, how effortlessly wonderful she looks every night. And he especially doesn't want to remember how wonderful she had looked on that night at the end of the summer, with her beautiful hair and her poplin dress fluttering in the gentle breeze. That splendorous September night when the two of them had slow danced to this same song right here, and the certainty he had felt when he finally told her . . .

* * *

_I thought love wasn't meant to last_  
_Honey, I thought you were just passing through_  
_If I ever get the nerve to ask_  
_What did I get right to deserve somebody like you?_

     He had always enjoyed his evenings and weekends before, but he has never looked forward to them with this degree of enthusiasm until he moved to Arcadia. Over the years, he had thought that his co-workers who couldn't wait to get out of the office simply didn't love their jobs as much as he loved his; now, he understands that their eagerness was always about who was waiting for them at home. He now knows what it is to have someone to come home to, and that home isn't always necessarily a physical place.

On the days when he has to go into St. Louis for meetings, during the evening drive back to Arcadia, all he can think about is the moment when he'll walk through the front door and be greeted by the wonderful smell of whatever Margaret is preparing for dinner and how he'll walk into the kitchen and wrap his arms around her and how she'll tilt her head to let him kiss her swanlike neck. He loves that the actual experience always eclipses even his most vivid imaginings. And on the days when he works from home, the sound of Margaret's key unlocking the front door is one of the few sounds in this world that can rival the beautiful sound of her laugh.

What he loves most about summertime in Arcadia is the leisurely pace of those three months, the sense of possibility that permeates the long days and makes him feel like he's decades younger, like a college student who's just finished his exams and has nothing but a seemingly endless summer vacation ahead of him. There are little moments interspersed throughout those summer days when time seems to slow, as if it's been trapped and suspended in the thick, humid air.

Some days, it feels like the sun will never set. It happens every weekend, when the first rays of sunshine begin to trickle in through the bedroom windows, but he and Margaret will continue to sleep in. It happens when he's holding her hand in his as he drives the Silverado through the rolling country roads, and they spend their Saturday afternoons on the lake. He'll lie beside her under the small pop up sun shelter, his fingertips playing connect the dots with the freckles on her legs as she reads her latest library book, until he'll inevitably decide to escape the heat by going for a swim. He has to admit that he's grown rather fond of swimming in lakes, though perhaps that's a direct result of how Margaret will always insist that he put on some sunscreen to protect his skin. He loves playfully stealing kisses from her as she applies the sunscreen to his torso and the way her touch will simultaneously relax and excite him as she massages the lotion into his back and shoulders. And the moment when his body has completely relaxed beneath her hands is the moment that she always catches him off guard by kissing the nape of his neck and then quickly pushing him into the water. When he surfaces, he can't help but smile at the sound of her gleeful laugh and at how beautiful she looks in her straw hat and her summer dress, with the sun shining on her skin and also bringing out every shade of blue in her eyes. She walks to the end of the dock and when he raises himself out of the water and up onto his elbows, she kneels down to run a hand through his wet hair and give him a kiss, telling him to enjoy his swim. At twilight, he swims back to the dock and to Margaret standing there waiting with a towel. She wraps the plush beach towel around him tightly and pulls him in for a sweet kiss, and he takes her hand as she leads the way back.

But it's those hot summer nights with Margaret that are always the highlight of his day. He discovers that there's a simple, yet indescribable joy in simply holding her in his arms—of feeling her heart beating against his chest and her fingers laced with his, of being enveloped in the scent of her perfume—as they slow dance in the living room after dinner. Every love song strikes a new chord within him, as if he's finally hearing the lyrics for the first time. Somehow, he sees colors whenever he listens to music now—colors he never even knew existed until he had experienced them for himself in Margaret's constantly changing eyes.

So many nights, it feels like he and Margaret are the only two people in town who are still awake. They'll either lose themselves in late-night conversations on the living room sofa or they'll lose themselves in each other in those minutes just before the dawn when, despite the sweltering temperatures, Margaret will seek out his warmth and reach for him. Time simply ceases to exist when he's lying beside her in their bed. In those moments, he can almost convince himself that nothing exists beyond the boundaries of their bedroom, that he and Margaret are the last two people on Earth, and that they have all the time in the world. And even when the outside world moves at breakneck speed, he and Margaret have an uncanny ability to find the time to be intimate with each other.

He's always mesmerized as he watches more and more of her being slowly revealed to him until the last item of her clothing finally falls away. He savors the slow exploration of Margaret's body, first with his hands and then his lips, eagerly learning her through all of his senses. And just when he's begun to memorize even the smallest detail about her, she somehow changes on him in the most subtle and breathtaking ways.

For his part, he still kisses her the way he always has—as if kissing her is its own reward. And for him, it is. Even when their hands begin to roam over each other's bodies, each touch a little bolder and each kiss a little more tempting than the last, he always leaves the decision about whether to take things any further up to her.

Because there's always this moment when Margaret will look up at him with such apprehension and vulnerability in her eyes. He'd noticed it the first time they'd made love, and though that moment may have diminished in both duration and intensity, it has never completely gone away. He suspects it never truly will, and it breaks his heart when he realizes why: Margaret had only ever been with Warren, and the experiences had never been satisfying or intimate and had always left her feeling cold. She had never been completely naked—physically or emotionally—with anyone. Until now, until Brian.

And every time she's completely and beautifully naked in front of him, she'll always look at him with apprehension and vulnerability in her eyes, so convinced that this time will finally be _the_ time when he'll look at her and no longer like what he sees. And that look always creeps into her eyes again afterwards, when she'll look at him and worry about whether the experience had been satisfying for him. Brian can't help but feel outraged that this beautiful, dynamic woman hasn't been shown enough kindness and tenderness in her life, has never known what it is to be treasured by another person. And he never knew that he was capable of hating someone he's never even met, but he hates Warren Langston for the havoc that his selfishness and indifference have wreaked on Margaret's self-esteem. And he hopes like hell that the ungrateful bastard never returns.

Time and time again, he finds a way to reassure her that she'll always be safe when she's with him and that she can trust him implicitly. The fact that he'll always touch her before they make love and that he'll always ask her if she's okay afterwards provides her with some measure of the certainty that she so desperately needs and lets her know that his pleasure is intrinsically linked to the pleasure he can give her. Even when they're deep in the throes of their passion, there's a moment when Margaret will caress his lips and whisper his name. And when he looks into her eyes, Brian's never felt more alive or more connected to her than when he sees that the look of apprehension and vulnerability has been transformed into one of raw need.

\---

The last rays of sunlight have just disappeared below the horizon when they arrive at the lake, and they have the small dock all to themselves. Neither of them had said much during the drive here. He had stolen a few glances at Margaret as she sat silently and stared out the window—her body flush against the cab door, her arms folded tightly, a sullen expression etched on her face. He knows that her pensive mood is due in large part to Henry's continued coldness towards her; even after the greater part of a year, her older son still hasn't said a word to her.

They had run into the Langstons at the Fourth of July barbeque in the park earlier this evening, and while Margaret had been overjoyed to spend a few minutes with her beloved grandson, Brian could see the hurt and sadness in her eyes when her son had continued to keep his distance from her. Henry had stood off to the side with Lucille and let Jacob show Margaret and Brian all the sparklers he'd gotten from the fireworks stand. Brian had walked over to where the Langstons were standing, and Lucille had been friendly and Henry had been civil. But Henry's expression had darkened into a scowl every time Margaret glanced in his direction, and he hadn't said goodbye to her. Brian's heart had broken for her as he silently watched Margaret watching her family enjoying one another's company without her, and she'd sniffled softly and quickly dried her eyes when he placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Come on. Let's get out of here," he'd suggested gently, and she'd sadly leaned into him when he wrapped his arm around her and led her away.

Though he's glad to have her all to himself tonight, if there was a way to trade in his happiness so that Margaret could spend this evening with her loved ones, he would do so in a heartbeat. Lying beside Margaret on the yellow blanket with her hand resting inside his, they quietly stargaze as they wait for the fireworks show to begin.

"Just give it a little more time. Henry'll come around, I promise," he says, kissing her hand before he kisses the smooth skin of her bare shoulder. "You're wonderful, sweetheart."

She tries to blink away the rapidly welling tears in her eyes, and her lips press together tightly in a thin line as she shakes her head dismissively. "It must be exhausting for you," she says in a small voice while looking down at their hands, "being the only person in the whole world who believes that."

He lets out a heavy sigh at that. "Come on, Margaret, you know that isn't true. But you know what is exhausting for me? The fact that you keep finding new ways to take my breath away. You could make things a hell of a lot easier for me by being less wonderful. But then, you wouldn't be you and I happen to be crazy about you. Exactly as you are. And being crazy about you is a big part of what makes me who I am. It's as simple as that."

It isn't his intention to sound so irritated with her when he's actually trying to tell her something heartfelt. He understands that Margaret tends to put her defenses up when she's upset—especially when it comes to Henry—but he wishes she wouldn't say such unkind things about herself, that she would give herself a little more credit and allow herself to accept a compliment every now and then. He's staring up at the sky when she laces her fingers with his and with her other hand, she cups his face to gently coax him into looking at her. She looks up at him—blue eyes tinged with apology, but also brimming with affection and gratitude—and then she kisses his cheek, breathing him in as her kisses move ever closer to his mouth.

"You're absolutely wonderful, Brian. And I'm crazy about you, too," she tells him, with a gentle sweep of her thumb across his lips. "I'm sorry that I don't tell you that often enough."

His bashful grin slowly widens as he runs his fingers through her hair. Jumping to his feet, he reaches into his pocket to take out the small packet of sparklers Jacob had given him earlier in the evening, and just as he finishes lighting a sparkler for each of them, the Fourth of July fireworks begin exploding above them. He kneels down across from her, and he's rendered both breathless and speechless because Margaret has never looked more beautiful to him—her long hair cascading onto her freckled shoulders, the melody of her delighted laughter sending him straight to cloud nine, and golden sparks flying between them and all around them.

"My God, you're beautiful. I wouldn't change a thing about you, Margaret. Or us," he tells her, holding out both sparklers in one hand.

She covers his hand with hers so that they're holding the sparklers and each other's hand at the same time. His gaze is drawn to her lips, and he watches her chewing her bottom lip nervously as she tries not only to find the words she wants to say to him, but also to gather the courage to actually say them out loud.

"I know that I could never even begin to repay you for always doing whatever you can to lift my spirits, but . . . "

She takes a deep breath, and with her slender fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, she pulls him in for a long and lingering kiss. "Thank you, Brian. Thank you for caring enough—about me, about my feelings—that you're even willing to try. For just being you, darling," she says, her voice so soft and quavering with vulnerability. "You and me?" she asks, looking up at him with a hopeful, radiant smile.

He wraps his arm around her, holding her so close that he can feel her heart beating in time with his own. And placing a kiss on her nose as they touch their foreheads together, he can't help but smile as he whispers, "You and me."

He had answered her with three little words, but as they watched the fireworks together that night, he had felt the beginnings of three different little words bubbling up inside his chest for the first time.

\---

Sitting at his desk the following Friday afternoon, he smiles when he hears the Cadillac pulling into the driveway. Margaret had gone out to lunch with Alex and Robin after her shift at the library, and he's bursting with excitement to finally see her again and to get this evening's festivities underway. He listens to the lovely sounds of Margaret unlocking the front door and placing the vase of flowers he'd had delivered to the library that morning on the small table in the foyer, right beside his second gift to her. When she comes to the study, she stands in the doorway with the small, dark blue gift box and its silver ribbon in her hand, and giving him a coy smile, she does her best Holly Golightly imitation as she puts on the Mikimoto pearl and diamond earrings.

"How do I look?" she asks him.

"Very good. I must say I'm amazed," he replies with a sly grin.

He doesn't know how it's possible, but he knows that they're both thinking about the night when they watched _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ together and how at that exact moment in the film, he had pressed a warm kiss to Margaret's cheek and whispered in her ear that he would always be amazed by her. Her beautiful face lights up even more as she walks into the study and slides into his lap. He tucks her long hair behind her ear as she loops the silk ribbon around his neck and pulls him close for a slow, deep kiss.

"You were a darling to help. I could never have done it without you," she says as they exchange laughing smiles, and he knows that it's just the start of what will be one of the best weekends of the summer.

\---

The orange glow of the setting sun makes the diamonds in her new earrings sparkle so brilliantly and also brings out all the shades of autumn in her hair as they drive through the rolling hills, and she kisses his cheek excitedly when they pull into the drive-in movie theater just north of town. He grabs the picnic basket from the backseat and helps a beaming Margaret into the Silverado's pillow-filled truck bed. The radio is tuned to the Oldies station, and they dine al fresco over a summer salad, apricot and prosciutto focaccia, and sangria as they wait for the old Hollywood movie marathon to begin. Just after sunset, Brian takes out the last remaining sparkler he had saved from the Fourth of July and puts it in one of the sprinkle cupcakes.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart. Make a wish," he whispers, lighting the sparkler and handing her the cupcake with a smile.

She takes the sparkler from the cupcake and holds it in her outstretched hand. He covers her hand with his and holds the sparkler with her. She leans forward, and it's the first time that she kisses him in public.

They finish off the sangria somewhere between _Casablanca_ and _The Philadelphia Story_ , and they're watching Grace Kelly and Cary Grant enjoying a picnic of their own on the French Riviera when a late-night thunderstorm takes everyone by surprise. Brian immediately jumps out of the back of the truck and reaches up to help Margaret down, and time seems to stand still the way it always does whenever he's holding her in his arms. While all the other moviegoers are scrambling to pack up their things and get out of the rain as fast as humanly possible, something about the way the rain runs in rivulets down her cheeks and the way he can hear the laughter in her smile makes Brian forget all about the torrential downpour. Their hands are tangled in each other's hair, and they share a romantic kiss in the warm and fragrant summer rain.

\---

The strong, fast-moving storm knocks out the town's electricity, so he and Margaret have to make a mad dash for the front door when they arrive back at the house. Margaret goes to light every candle in the house while he manually opens the garage from the inside and gets the pickup truck out of the driving rain. When he walks back into the house, the soft glow of candlelight coupled with the steady rhythm of the falling rain creates a sensual mood, as does the sight of Margaret's rain-soaked clothes clinging tightly to her fantastic figure as she wrings out her long hair.

Without any preamble, he marches right up to her and pulls her into a passionate kiss. He hears the towel land on the floor with a soft thud and the next thing he knows, he and Margaret are feverishly ripping each other's clothes off. His hands peel away her wet clothes and his lips rapidly warm her chilled skin as they seek out every newly exposed inch of her. He reaches one hand behind her to unhook her bra, and there's the wickedest note in her husky voice when she informs him, "It's a front closure, Mr. Addison."

He groans into her neck, and Margaret's laugh is full-throated and positively sinful. Lifting her onto the kitchen island, he relishes the way her fingernails dig into the nape of his neck and the way she gasps into his ear when her naked skin makes contact with the cool granite countertop. He climbs onto the kitchen island and the way her hands move down his back to grab his ass, her fingernails digging into his flesh, lets him know that she's as desperate for him as he is for her. That night, they make love outside of the bedroom for the first time. His thrusts are anything but gentle, and Margaret is anything but quiet.

Though he usually prefers to keep their bodies joined together for as long as possible, the heat that's generated by the frantic pace of their lovemaking makes him feel like his body might spontaneously combust at any second. He rolls off of her, the feeling of the cool granite a welcome relief on his skin, and they're both panting hard as they lie beside each other, with him lying on his back and staring at the ceiling and Margaret now lying on her stomach and gripping the counter's edge as the aftershocks roll through her. After a few minutes, there's a change in her breathing and he suddenly realizes that the electrical power has been restored and that Margaret is shivering from the chill of the air conditioning rushing across the sweat-soaked skin of her lower back.

He presses several warm kisses between her shoulder blades before he climbs off the counter and pulls her into his arms. Margaret wraps her legs around his waist, her soft lips nibbling on his ear and getting him all hot and bothered that he finds it damn near impossible to walk straight as he carries her to the master bathroom. Kissing her in the warm summer rain had been a breathtaking experience, yet it pales in comparison to the privilege of kissing her now. He knows that the difference isn't simply due to their current state of undress; rather, it has everything to do with the fact that he's kissing this beautiful woman in _their_ shower, in _their_ house. He's discovered the indescribable and wonderful certainty of having come home, of having glimpsed something eternal within the temporal. And those three little words bubble up in his chest once again.

They head to the walk-in closet to get dressed for bed, and he's just put on his boxers and is about to put on his crumpled Stanford Graduate School of Business T-shirt when he feels her place her hands low on his waist. Her hands snake around to his front, moving up his flat stomach and pressing into his chest, and he feels like his rapidly beating heart might explode from the feeling of her nipples slowly sliding up his back as she raises herself onto her tiptoes. She runs her tongue up the back of his neck, and he can't suppress a groan when she pulls his skin between her teeth, marking him. He turns around to see his gorgeous girlfriend dressed in nothing more than her panties, with her lustrous, dark hair spilling onto her shoulders. He gets the briefest eyeful of her perfect breasts before she presses them against his chest, slides her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, and playfully grabs the T-shirt from his hand. She puts on his shirt as she walks to the bedroom, looking over her shoulder and giving him a mischievous wink.

When he finally recovers his wits and walks into the bedroom, she's waiting for him at the foot of their bed, sitting like a proper little lady with her legs crossed and her hands folded neatly in her lap. But there's no disguising the wicked little smile on her lips as she watches Brian walking over to her, clearly turned on by the sight of her wearing his shirt.

"Well hello, lady in Cardinal red," he drawls with a shameless, leering grin as he kneels down. His hands slide up her toned calves and he pulls her towards him when his hands reach the silky smooth skin at the back of her knees. "You know, I've always been rather fond of this shirt. And while you're welcome to wear it tonight, Mrs. Langston, there is one condition," he whispers in her ear. He kisses her neck as his hands make their way under the soft cotton of his shirt, coaxing her thighs apart so that his fingers can tease the intricate Leavers lace trim of her satin panties. His tongue locates the pulse point on her neck, and she moans beautifully for him as she wraps her legs around his waist, her heels pressing firmly into his lower back and her fingernails digging into his shoulders, creating that exquisite combination of pleasure and pain, just like they had when the two of them were making love in the kitchen not even an hour ago.

"Name your terms, Mr. Addison," she says with a quick kiss, lifting her hips off the mattress so that he can wrap his arm around her and carry her into bed with him.

"As it's going to be raining cats and dogs the rest of this weekend," he begins, crawling up the bed and laying her down gently, "and because I can't think of a better way to pass the time than by making love with you until all our strength is gone, I am officially designating this house a clothing-optional zone, effective tomorrow at 0800 hours when I bring you breakfast in bed."

He can't say whether he honestly expects her to agree to it, but he's delighted when she does.

She gives him a sweet, sleepy kiss when he brings her breakfast in bed the next morning, and he's perusing the business section of the newspaper and enjoying his first cup of coffee when she finishes eating, places the breakfast tray on the floor, and climbs onto his lap, straddling his hips.

"It's my duty to inform you that it is now 0800 hours, Mr. Addison, and we're both far too overdressed. Wouldn't you agree?" she whispers seductively into his ear, as her fingertips glide across his bare chest.

He nonchalantly places the newspaper and his coffee mug on the bedside table before removing his reading glasses. She demurely raises her arms above her head, and he undresses her slowly, his lips lightly following the path forged by his hands before he skillfully flips her onto her back, and they begin their Saturday with slow, lazy morning sex.

As planned, it rains all day, and they spend the entire day in bed, only putting on clothes and leaving the bedroom when absolutely necessary. He works on his laptop as she reads a book beside him. They continue the old Hollywood movie marathon over picnic-style meals and multiple bottles of wine. His arms are wrapped around her and his lips meander across her upper back as they listen to the sounds of the summer thunderstorms and drift into a late afternoon nap. When they wake, he's utterly enraptured as he watches Margaret luxuriating in a satisfying full-body stretch. At the sound of her soft moan, he finds it impossible to keep his hands off her and they make love again.

\---

As delightful as Saturday is, he's even more delighted when Margaret walks into the kitchen the next morning. Still looking irresistible as ever in his Stanford T-shirt, she greets him with a long and lingering kiss.

"Good morning, handsome," she says with a smile.

"Hello, beautiful," he replies, running his fingers through her perfect, freshly showered hair.

Wrapping one arm around her legs, he lifts her onto the kitchen island, and she sits with Daisy curled up in her lap while he finishes making breakfast. He joins her on the kitchen island, and her eyes sparkle so beautifully when he hands her a plate of Nutella-stuffed pancakes topped with blueberries and strawberries. They sit across from each other—cross-legged with their plates in their laps—and enjoy a leisurely breakfast together.

That afternoon, as they're spending another rainy day in bed, their phones finally dry out and he watches as tears of joy fill Margaret's eyes. Earlier that week, her friends and family had gotten together with Alex's band at Common Grounds to record a video on Jacob's phone of all of them singing "Happy Birthday" to Margaret. The sound of her laughter as she watches the birthday video Jacob sent her melts his heart entirely. 

Then, he watches as she's overcome with emotion as she listens to a voicemail from her daughter-in-law, wishing her a happy birthday and letting her know that she and Henry have agreed to Brian's request to take Jacob to the Cardinals game in St. Louis next month. She looks at him with both surprise and affection in her watery eyes—Brian hadn't told her about his conversation with Henry and Lucille at the Fourth of July barbeque, not wanting to get Margaret's hopes up or add to the rift between mother and son on the off chance that Henry said no. He's had the three baseball tickets in the drawer of his bedside table for almost two weeks, and he feels like he's floating on air from the excitement of finally being able to share the good news with her.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he says, gently cupping her face to dry the tears on her cheek, and she smiles so brightly as she caresses his lips and wraps her arms around his neck.

"Best birthday ever," she tells him. She kisses him between each word, playfully mimicking his words and actions from his birthday, and they're soon giddy with laughter. He pulls her into his lap, and their effervescence only multiplies as they continue to shower each other with warm, tickling kisses.

* * *

_Oh and isn't it strange_  
_How a life can be changed_  
_In the flicker of the sweetest smile?_  


     His plans to take Margaret and Jacob to St. Louis almost get derailed when the game's start time is rescheduled to start in the evening in order to avoid the brunt of that weekend's record-breaking heatwave. He dreads having to call Henry and Lucille to let them know that the change in plans will mean a very late return to Arcadia, and it's a tense few days of waiting to hear back from the Langstons about whether Jacob will still be allowed to go. Thankfully, they don't change their minds.

And as drained as Brian feels after a stressful week at work dealing with nonstop calls and emails from a demanding client, walking into the kitchen on Saturday morning to the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and a good morning kiss from Margaret makes everything feel right as rain. She looks picture-perfect in her navy Bermuda shorts and red gingham shirt, her hair tied in a messy ponytail, and her eyes sparkling like sapphires in the bright sunshine. They enjoy a relaxing day at home before driving over to Henry and Lucille's, and seeing Jacob is always like catching a second wind.

He loves hearing Jacob talking excitedly in the backseat during the entire drive and then showing them around his office building once they arrive in St. Louis. He'll especially remember the affection in Margaret's eyes when she sees that the only picture on Brian's desk is a recent one—her and Jacob smiling with their sparklers in hand at the Fourth of July barbeque in the park. She reaches for his hand as they're walking from his office to Busch Stadium, with Jacob skipping a few yards ahead of them.

There's a stadium giveaway for the first 12,000 children entering the park that evening, and Jacob looks like he's the happiest boy in the world when he receives his teddy bear dressed in a Cardinals uniform from Build-A-Bear Workshop. That smile never leaves Jacob's face as they walk onto the field before the game and Jacob gets to meet some of his favorite players, posing for pictures with them and even receiving a few autographed baseballs. Brian can't help but spoil the kid that evening, and he tells Jacob that he'll buy him any baseball cap he likes. He's flattered when Jacob insists on getting the same cap that Brian does, but he's even more delighted by the look on Margaret's face when Jacob insists that Margaret has to get the same cap too.

They make their way to their seats behind the Cardinals' dugout, and Jacob enthusiastically claims the middle seat. A lady in the row in front of them happily takes a picture of the three of them, and Brian's heart swells when Jacob puts his arms around him and Margaret. He immediately falls in love with that picture, the three of them looking so happy and so adorable in their matching baseball caps.

After the seventh inning stretch, Jacob is sitting in his grandmother's lap and the three of them are sharing an extra large lemon chill when the Kiss Cam finds them. He watches the blush rise in Margaret's cheeks as everyone around them begins cheering them on, and he doesn't expect that she'll allow him to kiss her in front of all these strangers. But she gives him a million-watt smile and he gently holds her chin, drawing her in and making her feel safe. He's expecting a quick, shy kiss but when her lips meet his, they linger so sweetly. They're dreamily gazing at each other when they both suddenly remember where they are and that they're not alone. Slowly, they turn to look at Jacob—he has seen the two of them holding hands on several occasions, but this is the first time they've ever kissed each other in front of him. They're slightly embarrassed and worried about how he'll react, but Jacob just gives them a huge grin.

\---

It's a little after eleven o'clock when he pulls the Silverado into the Langstons' driveway, and he chuckles to himself when he looks into the rearview mirror and sees Jacob and Margaret both rubbing their sleepy eyes with a huge yawn.

"Home sweet home," Brian says when he opens the cab door, fully expecting for Jacob to hop out and go running up the porch steps. Instead, the little boy takes his heart by surprise when he sleepily wraps his arms tightly around Brian's neck. He freezes for a split second, but when he looks into Margaret's sparkling eyes, he sees in them the same overpowering love for her grandson that he suddenly feels ballooning in his chest. Carrying Jacob in one arm, he holds out his other hand to help Margaret out of the truck.

It only takes a handful of seconds for the three of them to make their way up to the Langstons' front door, but in those fleeting seconds, time slows and stretches out before him like something as vast and deep as the Pacific Ocean itself. Since the moment he first laid eyes on Margaret's picture, he had wanted to believe in the impossible—that by some miracle he might have some chance of being with her. But on the first night of August, feeling his and Jacob's hearts beating in time with each other's and the comforting warmth of Margaret's palm against his own, somehow he just knows with every fiber of his being that he has a real future with this beautiful woman walking beside him. Not just any future, but a phosphorescent and joyous one.

When they reach the front door, Brian bends down to press a warm kiss to Margaret's cheek and to tell her, "This has been one of the best days of my entire life."

She looks deep into his eyes with a blushing smile, and without fail he experiences the sensation of being slammed into by a tidal wave all over again. And yet, it's different from anything he's ever experienced before, far more overwhelming and somehow inexplicably calming. They reposition their hands so that their fingers intertwine, and the realization that the most important things in his life are right here in his arms slowly washes over him. He has never felt more possessive or more protective of Margaret and Jacob than he does in this moment. _Or more in love_ , he realizes with a jolt.

When the front door opens, Henry gives them a curt nod and nothing more, but Lucille makes an effort to greet all three of them with a smile, asking if they had a good time at the game. Jacob replies with a nod and a sleepy smile, keeping his arms wrapped around Brian's neck and his head on Brian's shoulder when he asks, "Can Grandma and Brian tuck me in tonight?"

Henry visibly bristles at the question, but Lucille graciously steps aside so that Brian can carry Jacob inside the house and up the stairs. Just outside Jacob's bedroom door, he kneels to set the sleepy boy down and Lucille takes Jacob inside to help him change into his pajamas and get ready for bed.

Margaret holds out her hands to help him to his feet, and the positively electric feeling of her skin meeting his is only further intensified by the realization that he is holding Margaret's hands in his while he's down on one knee. His heart takes off with the speed of a bullet train, and Margaret's cheeks blush the most lovely shade of crimson. He slowly rises to his feet, and they exchange shy smiles as they wait together in the hallway, with Brian continuing to hold Margaret's hands in his and his fingertips caressing her soft skin with a light, barely-there touch.

 _Hello, beautiful_. He mouths the words with a grin just as Lucille comes back out into the hallway and says good night to both of them. Margaret gives his hands a gentle squeeze, and he follows her into the bedroom.

The string lights hanging above Jacob's bed cast a warm glow over the room, and taking a seat at the foot of the bed, Brian smiles wistfully as he watches the lovely little scene unfolding before him and commits it to memory—Margaret kneeling beside her perfect little grandson and smiling serenely as she strokes his messy brown hair.

"Good night, my special boy," she whispers with a gentle kiss on Jacob's forehead.

"Good night, Grandma. I love you lots. Good night, Brian. Thanks for taking me to my first Cardinals game. I had a really great time," Jacob murmurs, his eyelids heavy with sleep.

"You're welcome, buddy. I had a really great time, too. Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite," he whispers.

Margaret comes to stand in front of him, and he places his hands on her hips, loosely wrapping his arms around her waist as he rises from the bed. She steps into his embrace, resting her head against his chest and her hand over his heart, and they watch Jacob sleeping for a little longer. With a barely audible, but contented sigh, she raises herself onto her tiptoes to breathe in the splash of aftershave on his neck, and she looks up at him with a tender smile.

"Let's go home," she whispers, with a feather-light kiss on his lips. Slipping her hand into his, she quietly leads him out of the room and down the stairs.

\---

"Well, we gave it our most valiant effort, Mrs. Langston, but I think you'll agree with me that we no longer possess the stamina of youth. And I have to say, the effectiveness of this overly sugary and supposedly highly caffeinated beverage is quickly wearing off," he teases with a playful tap on Margaret's nose when she lets out a yawn and drops her head onto his shoulder later that night.

They had stopped by the coffee shop after tucking Jacob in, and they'd made the mistake of deciding to try out the newest offering on the menu. The sugar crash from the caramel-drenched beverage had hit soon after, and they've been lounging beside each other out on the patio deck, with Brian's fingertips drawing lazy patterns on Margaret's knee, ever since they got back to the house.

A part of him feels absolutely drained after a long day of driving and hours spent in the oppressive Missouri heat, but sitting beside Margaret and rediscovering the lingering sandalwood notes in her perfume with each breath leaves him feeling slightly wired. In the hour or so since they got back to the house, his attention has been wholly focused on Margaret's fantastic legs as his hand wandered all over her warm skin that when he tears his eyes away from her, he finally notices the hundreds of fireflies that are twinkling away all throughout the large backyard.

"Wow! This is just incredible!"

"What is?" she asks, her breath warm on his neck.

"Fireflies," he replies breathlessly, his voice full of wonderment. "We don't get them out West, so I always loved visiting Arcadia when I was younger and chasing after them through the fields with my brothers and my cousins. There was something magical about seeing them come out at twilight on a humid summer evening. I can't believe it's really been decades since I experienced this."

He turns to look at her, and the sight of Margaret smiling at him before a backdrop of countless fireflies twinkling all around her takes his breath away. "It's beyond words, really. You get to a certain age, and you think that you've experienced everything the world has to offer. And then, the world finds some new and completely unexpected way to surprise you. Lucky me," he whispers, lost in her beautiful blue eyes as he caresses her cheek, "getting to experience fireflies again for the first time in years. And the fact that it's happening with you just makes it even more special."

They say each other's names breathlessly as their lips come crashing together in an electrifying kiss, and when her tongue plunges into his mouth, their hands begin to roam beneath the soft cotton of each other's clothes. He pulls her into his lap, his kisses moving down her neck and along her gorgeous collarbones, and with one hand, he deftly undoes the buttons of her gingham shirt, eager to feel the silky-smooth skin in the valley between her breasts against his lips. He slips her shirt off her shoulders, and pulling down the lace-trimmed cup of her balconette bra, he hungrily takes her breast into his mouth. He can feel her heart racing beneath his lips when his teeth lightly graze against the soft skin of her breast and his tongue lavishes attention on her nipple.

When his hands slide behind her knees to lift her into his arms and carry her into the house, she surprises him by sliding her hands down his chest to unbuckle his belt and then unzip his shorts at a torturously slow pace. Her hands slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, and grasping his hips, she pulls him down onto the patio deck and on top of her. Nipping at his earlobe, she purrs into his ear, "Make love to me, Brian. Right here under the stars."

He groans into her neck, enthralled not only by her words but also by the feel of her slender fingers moving deeper inside his boxers and wrapping themselves one by one around the rock-hard length of him. His hands are shaking wildly with desire, but he somehow manages to shed them both of their clothing, even with Margaret kissing him passionately and stroking him—vigorously, relentlessly, and very nearly to the point of climax—throughout the entire process.

Under most circumstances, he would have been grateful for the relative isolation that the large backyard affords them from the prying eyes of their neighbors. But all sense of caution and decorum are completely thrown to the wind at the sight of Margaret's naked body—fully on display, bathed in the orange glow of the summer moonlight, and just begging for his touch. With a wolfish grin, he tosses her panties over his shoulder, letting it join the rest of their clothing in the haphazard pile at the edge of the patio deck, and he begins kissing his way back up her body.

"My God, you're a masterpiece, Mrs. Langston," he tells her, his voice a low growl.

She looks up at him with passion burning wildly in her dark eyes as her fingernails rake all over his torso, and the caramel-infused succulence of her scorching kiss sets his head spinning. His mouth wanders lower and lower on her abdomen, and he savors the remaining seconds before he will feel her body tense up and she will once again gently push him away, telling him, "I'm sorry, Brian. I just can't. Not yet."

But tonight, that moment never arrives.

Instead, her hands slide into his hair, her fingernails digging into his scalp as she navigates his mouth even lower. His fingers slowly part her folds, and the air rushes out of his lungs as he takes in the enticing sight of Margaret's beautiful and unique shade of pink for the first time.

She inhales sharply, her entire body tensing up, and he immediately stops what he's doing and looks up to see her chewing her bottom lip, trying to keep her soft whimper of embarrassment from escaping.

He can still recall with perfect clarity the night when his kisses had drifted below her navel for the very first time and the way she had tensed up and looked at him with such shame in her eyes, fearing that he would be displeased with her for refusing him and that he would think she was pathetic for having never experienced oral sex before. Her voice had sounded so broken when she apologized and turned away from him, covering her face with her hands. He had wrapped the bed sheet and his naked body around her naked, shivering body and felt her sobs gradually subside as he held her in his arms. Pressing a warm kiss to her tear-stained cheek, he had reassured her, "It's okay, sweetheart. It's all right. I'm not upset with you in any way. Please, please don't blame yourself. You have nothing to be sorry for and nothing to be ashamed of. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, Margaret. I'm crazy about you. And we'll get there. Together. You and me."

He had meant every word, because he knows what a profoundly intimate thing oral sex can be and that Margaret has never experienced anything even remotely approaching this level of intimacy before. Knowing what a big step this would be, both for her and for them, he gently takes her trembling hands into his and says her name with as much tenderness as possible. She takes a deep breath and timidly brings her eyes—so full of apprehension and vulnerability from being so exposed—to meet his.

"I want to, sweetheart, but only if this is what _you_ really want. Are you sure?" he asks, his concern for her feelings the only thing that matters to him right now.

The tension leaves her body almost immediately, and a trusting smile slowly brightens her face as she traces the outline of his lips with the most seductive of caresses. And she says yes.

He laces his fingers with hers, and holding her hand the entire time heightens the sense of intimacy of another relationship milestone being shared. It is both an out-of-body experience and sensory overload for both of them. Guided by the quickening of her breaths and the way her sylphlike fingers pull at his hair, his tongue finds a rhythm and a depth that cause her back to arch until her lithe little body is as taut as a bowstring. Having been raised Catholic, Brian can't help but relish the sound of his name and the Lord's name following each other's in such close succession in Margaret's husky moans, over and over and over again. His hand relaxes its grasp on her hip to slither upwards and fondle her firm breast, and when she looks him straight in the eye, something about watching her watching him as he discovers all of her varying and exquisite tastes causes his own arousal to intensify. Pinioned under his tongue, with his five o'clock shadow creating the most pleasurable friction against the creamy skin of her thighs, he feels her entire body tense before she shatters with a hard jerk, and he swears that both her heat and her taste change at the moment of her climax.

He continues to hold onto her hand as he slides up her body and covers it with his. She's panting hard, and in her hypersensitive state, every open-mouthed kiss on her neck causes her to shudder and brings forth a low moan from somewhere deep within her. He's about to ask her if she's okay when she wraps her legs around his waist, completely taking him by surprise when she reaches between their bodies to guide him inside her. She is still pulsating as he sinks into her that it only takes a few thrusts for him to find his release. He holds her tight, keeping their bodies joined together as he climaxes and then rolls onto his back, wanting to stay inside her and feel the tremors rolling through both of their bodies for as long as possible.

Their intertwined fingers lazily dance together, and he chuckles softly as he listens to Margaret making sleepy, satisfied sounds when his other hand glides up her spine, his fingers losing themselves in her hair and lightly massaging her scalp. It's not long before he's making sleepy, satisfied sounds of his own as Margaret covers his chest with warm butterfly kisses and drags her moist lower lip up his neck. When he moves in to kiss her, she hesitates for a moment, feeling both shyness and curiosity about tasting herself on his lips. Giving her a reassuring smile, he caresses her palm with his thumb, and they hold each other's hand a little tighter. The tremble in her lips disappears the longer they kiss, and the feeling of her tongue probing every corner of his mouth causes him to twitch inside her again and leaves them both gasping for air.

"I cannot believe we just did that! My God, you're incredible!" he exclaims when she collapses on top of him, her thick hair surrounding them when she presses her forehead against his.

"More incredible than fireflies?" she asks, the playful note in her voice imparting a mischievous glint to her eyes and causing them both to burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"Much more," he whispers with an Eskimo kiss. "Believe me, so much more."

They reluctantly disentangle their spent bodies, and Margaret falls asleep in his arms as he's carrying her inside the house. Laying her down gently on their bed and draping the cool linen sheet over their flushed bodies, he cannot recall a time when he's felt more blissfully content than he does right then. With his hand resting in the curve of her waist, his thumb languidly caressing her heated, silken skin along the jut of her hip bone, he watches her smiling as she sleeps. A smile forms on his own lips as he begins to drift off, because he knows that they will spend all day in their bed exploring each other and that their clothes will remain in that haphazard pile on the patio deck through the end of the weekend.

* * *

_Feels like I'll burst and explode any minute now_  
_For what heart could hold what is in it now?_  
_The mess that we make, it will be glorious_  
_The mess that we make, just the two of us_  


     Though Fred may have only been teasing her back at the beginning of the summer when he asked when she and Brian would be having a housewarming party, when they're lying in the hammock and enjoying an after-dinner drink one night, Margaret kisses Brian's cheek and suggests that perhaps they should have a get-together at the house. He already knows that he can refuse her nothing, and they decide that they'll host a small party over the Labor Day weekend. She's overjoyed and he shares in her joy when all of their invited guests are able to attend, including Henry.

That Saturday evening proves to be a great success. He's just finished lighting the citronella candles and filling the galvanized party tub with ice when Margaret steps out onto the patio deck, doing a small spin to give him a 360-degree view of her white poplin dress. He feels his heart racing in his chest as he stands behind her and helps her with her necklace, and as always, he kisses the back of her neck once he's fastened the clasp. Wrapping his arms around her tiny waist, he nuzzles the soft skin behind her right ear, breathing in the small dab of perfume that she applies there just for him, and he smiles when he sees that she's wearing the earrings he'd given her for her birthday.

"My goodness, Mrs. Langston. How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself tonight when you look this damn good?" he whispers seductively in her ear.

She turns in his arms, standing on her tiptoes as she slides her hands up his chest and loosely wraps her arms around his neck. He bends down to kiss her, and just as his lips brush against hers, the doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of their first guests. He throws up his hands in mock frustration, and Margaret just laughs as she gives him a quick kiss and makes her way to the front door.

Maggie and Marty are the first to arrive, along with Jenny, Elaine, and the young deputy Elaine has been dating for a few weeks. Andrew Chartman is a sweet-natured young man who is quick to smile in a way that reminds Margaret of Brian. The six of them set the table for dinner together over a glass of wine and light conversation, all of them smiling when they hear Jenny laughing as she plays with Daisy.

Jacob is the next one to come through the front door, bursting in excitedly with the force of a hurricane. He gives everyone a huge hug and a high five to Brian and Andrew. Henry still isn't saying much to either of them, but he hands Margaret a small gift bag and mutters that it's a housewarming gift that Jacob helped make and would like for them to have. Brian watches Margaret light up when she takes the hand-carved picture frame out of the tissue paper, and she touches his arm with such joy in her beautiful blue eyes when she shows him the photograph of him, Margaret, and Jacob in their matching baseball caps from last month's Cardinals game.

Fred is the last to arrive, and Brian and Margaret are both surprised when they open the door to find not only Fred, but also an elegant, brunette woman standing beside him. Though Angela Forrester has been living in Arcadia for a few weeks now and is working with Marty at the newly established Bureau of the Returned, Fred hadn't mentioned that he would be bringing a plus one with him tonight.

But the surprises don't end there. Throughout the course of the evening, it becomes clear that Alex and Angela have known each other for years and also that Fred is genuinely smitten with Angela. Though Brian isn't one to pry, he finds that he doesn't have to, as Fred can't stop raving about Angela. They'd met through work and then found themselves running into each other around town—at the grocery store, the coffee shop, on their morning jogs alongside the riverbank—and Fred had found himself hoping that he would keep running into her. At one point in the evening, Alex is showing Jacob and Jenny how to play a song on the guitar, and everyone discovers what an incredible singing voice Angela has. And if Fred had been smiling brightly before, he was positively lit from within as he listened to Angela singing along to the melodies of Alex's guitar.

When he and Margaret are preparing the coffee in the kitchen later, Brian finds himself looking out the French doors and quietly observing all the people gathered on the patio deck that night. Just like the song that's currently playing on the stereo goes, everybody is dancing in the moonlight. Jacob and Jenny are getting an impromptu guitar lesson from Alex, and Brian smiles when he sees Robin capturing it all on her camera. He can't wait to see all of the incredible pictures she's taken of this perfect evening. He reaches across the kitchen table to take Margaret's hand and to guide her over to his side of the table. He holds her hands in his and bends down to press a warm kiss to her cheek.

"Thank you," he whispers, touching his forehead to hers. "Thank you for having dinner with me all those months ago. For bringing all of these wonderful people into my life."

She caresses his lips with a smile and leads him out onto the patio deck. She drapes her arms around his neck, and they're soon dancing in the moonlight with all of the other happy couples.

When they've said good night to the last of their guests, Margaret slips off her shoes and leans back against the front door. She looks exhausted, but so very lovely. And absolutely irresistible. He kicks off his shoes as well and walks over to her, thrilled about finally being able to take her into his arms and make her giggle as he whispers sweet nothings in her ear.

They wrap their arms around each other's waists as they walk through the house and back out onto the patio deck. They clear off the table and throw everything into the dishwasher before grabbing a couple of paper cups and the last bottle of wine from the ice bucket. Sitting side by side at the edge of the deck, with their legs stretched out and the lush green grass cool against their bare feet, she rests her head on his shoulder and his fingers caress her upper arm and shoulder with a light, barely-there touch as they finish off the Moscato d'Asti. The fireflies are twinkling away, and everything begins to feel soft and slightly hazy around the edges when "Wonderful Tonight" begins to play on the stereo.

"Dance with me?" he asks, rising to his feet and holding out his hands.

They move languidly, and though the night air is still warm and they're both slightly flushed from the wine, they hold each other close—nuzzling each other's necks, their hands roaming over the thin fabrics of each other's clothing—as they sway to the music. He twirls a tendril of her hair between his fingers, feeling so relaxed and contented that he feels like he could fall asleep right then and there, until Margaret's kisses ascend from the notch at the base of his throat to his lips. Her fingers gently pull at his hair and massage his scalp as she kisses him breathless, and his hands move in every direction over her body, his fingertips tracing the curve of her hip, the perfect path of her spine, the swell of her breasts. Her Moscato-soaked tongue tickles the roof of his mouth when their kiss deepens, her supple body intoxicating him more than any bottle of wine ever could.

"Wow," he says, both of them feeling lightheaded and out of breath as they sit back down on the patio deck. He caresses her blushing cheek and then combs his fingers through her long, wavy hair. "You are a marvel, Mrs. Langston."

"And that," she remarks, pressing a finger to his full lips, "is quite the handsome smile you've got there, Mr. Addison. You must be one very happy man."

He nods his head with a soft chuckle. "I am. I'm over the moon, in fact," he replies.

"And why might that be?" she asks in a sing-song voice, leaning over to press a warm kiss to his cheek.

He turns his head to look into those beautiful blue eyes, and his heart flutters as those three little words bubble up uncontrollably in his chest once again.

"Because I'm in love with you."

Her playful smile vanishes in an instant. Her doe-like eyes wide with shock, she looks up at him like he's just delivered the best news she's ever heard. _Or the worst._

"What?" she asks in disbelief. 

"I'm in love with you," he repeats, his voice still just as honeyed and steadfast. Just as he's done countless times before, he tucks her long, flowing hair behind her ear. His index finger traces the soft shell of her ear, and he sweeps his thumb across her perfect cheekbone. His warm brown eyes are as full of tenderness as ever, and their soft gaze lingers upon her lips as an incandescent smile forms on his own. "Margaret, I love you."

"You do?" she asks, her usually resonant voice catching in her throat.

"I do," he tells her. "More than you can imagine."

At the trembling touch of her hand on the back of his neck, he leans forward and touches his forehead to hers.

He had wanted to remember it all, to close his eyes and breathe in that moment, to create a new and precious memory of the two of them—a sultry September night in the Midwest, the stars and the fireflies twinkling away at the edges of his peripheral vision, the full moon shining brightly, the distant sound of a passing train, the soft breeze rushing through his hair, the feel of her warm breath caressing his lips, the scents of lush green grass and fragrant gardenias and Margaret.

But when he'd opened his eyes, all he could see were the tears clinging to Margaret's long eyelashes. And the words she had whispered to him were not the ones he had been hoping to hear.

"I'm sorry," she had apologized through a sudden deluge of tears. "Brian, I'm so sorry."

She had remorsefully pulled her hand away and left him sitting there in stunned disbelief, with the sound of her sobs echoing in his ears and tears welling in his own eyes as he watched her disappear into the house. He had felt his heart slowly fracture as it sank, and in that moment there was no denying that the summer had come to an end.

* * *

_I understand your worrying_  
_I know the feeling_  
_Love is always shifting sand—not much to believe in_

     He looks over his shoulder at the dark and empty house, and it's as if he's sitting at the top of the patio steps on that September night all over again. Watching the sway of her white dress as she walked away from him, there had been a piercing quality to the silence that descended after his declaration went unreturned. It was as if the silence could reverberate and it had grated on his nerves, like a song that had ended abruptly and on the wrong note.

When he climbed into bed later that night, Margaret had turned onto her side and silently stared at him as he lay staring at the ceiling.

"Please don't be mad at me," she had whispered. The pleading quality in her voice had caused him to feel actual, physical pain in his chest, and he couldn't bear to look at her in that moment. "I adore you, Brian. I know that isn't what you want to hear from me, and I'm sorry that I don't know how to give you more than that right now. I can't put into words the way I feel about you, except to tell you that you completely overwhelm me, my darling. And you're the first . . . the only man who has ever said those words to me," she'd said tearfully. "I wish I deserved them. And you."

He had taken a deep breath and released it slowly before turning his head to finally look at her, and Margaret had looked so frightened and fragile when she asked him, "You and me?"

The tightness in his throat had made it all but impossible for him to speak, and he could only nod in reply.

They had confined themselves to their own separate corners of the house and largely managed to avoid running into each other for the rest of the weekend. At night, they somehow found their way back to their bedroom, but there was a heaviness, a melancholy to the silence that filled the new and seemingly insurmountable distance between them as they laid side by side, gazing into each other's eyes without a word and without ever touching.

By the time the long weekend came to an end, the palpable tension between them still remained. On Tuesday morning, the buzzing of the alarm clock slicing through the stillness and the opportunity to escape to the office were a welcome relief. Though he was running way ahead of schedule and his first meeting wasn't scheduled to begin for a few more hours, he hadn't joined Margaret at the breakfast table. He could feel her eyes watching him as he hastily gathered his things, his eagerness to get out of the house plain as day. And though he had kissed her cheek on his way out the door, it was the first time that Brian had done so more out of habit than desire, and he had felt Margaret wince from the lack of warmth in his lips.

The rest of the day hadn't fared much better. Mostly, he had found himself staring out the boardroom windows at the St. Louis skyline and unable to concentrate on anything that was being said as the business meetings droned on for hours. When he finally left the office, gridlocked traffic on the highway had made for a less than pleasant commute, and his frustration had only escalated when he realized that his phone battery had died and that in his haste to get out of the house that morning, he had forgotten to throw the charger in his briefcase.

After a longer than anticipated evening commute, he had been in a thoroughly foul mood when he finally pulled the car into the driveway and made his way to the front door. But right when he was about to put his key in the lock, the door had suddenly flown open and Margaret was in his arms, clinging to him tightly as she buried her face in his neck.

"What's wrong? Has something happened?" he had asked in alarm when he felt her tears on his neck, and his heart plummeted when he suddenly remembered that she'd had her monthly doctor's appointment that afternoon.

"No, everything's fine," she'd said, as she quickly wiped away the tears on her cheeks. "It's just that I was watching the news and there were reports about a fatal accident on the highway involving a Corvette, and I tried calling you, but I couldn't get through, and I thought . . ."

Her voice was the most frantic he'd ever heard it, and she'd taken a shuddering breath when she reached up, her trembling hand cupping his cheek with such tenderness as she brushed her thumb across his lips. "Oh God, Brian, I was so scared that something terrible had happened to you."

Her voice had faltered, and the iciness encasing his wounded heart had melted. Slowly and sweetly, he had taken her hand in his and kissed his way across her knuckles. And when she slid her other hand up the back of his neck and into his hair, he had bowed his head so that she could press her soft lips to his forehead.

"I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here," he had reassured her, looking into her shimmering eyes when she touched her forehead to his. "And I promise you it would take a lot more than an accident on the highway to keep me from coming home to you."

She had smiled through her tears, and with an Eskimo kiss, he had whispered, "You and me."

Wrapping his arms around her waist to lift her feather-light frame into his arms, they had kissed each other fervently as he carried her back into the house and kicked the door closed behind them.

He doesn't remember what they ate for dinner that night or what book Margaret had been reading on the living room sofa afterwards when his fingertips had slid up her long neck and gently tilted her head backwards, surprising her with an upside-down kiss. But he does remember how the warmth of her kiss was still on his lips as he quickly drifted off to sleep and how he was awakened by the feeling of Margaret slipping her hand into his when she came to bed later that night.

He has never put any faith in palmistry, and he doubts that Margaret does either. But as they laid beside each other that night, with him giving no indication that he was actually awake and silently studying her face, he had seen the relief in her small smile as her index finger lightly traced the long, deep path of his life line. And when she laid her head on his chest, pressing her ear to his heart as her slender fingers slowly curled into his shirt, she had clung to him so tightly and whispered three little words in a small and almost prayer-like voice: "Don't leave me."

_There's a moment when love makes us believe in death for the first time. You recognize the one whose loss, even contemplated, you'll carry forever, like a sleeping child. All grief, anyone's grief, you said, is the weight of a sleeping child._

He had glimpsed those words in Margaret's book when he kissed her earlier in the evening, but it wasn't until her head was pillowed upon his chest and he was listening to the soothing sounds of her steady breaths as she slept that he began to understand just what it was that Margaret was trying to tell him.

* * *

     That particular passage haunts him now, just as the memory of Margaret's face haunts him. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her looking up at him—those beautiful blue eyes wide with shock and filled with tears from the cruelty of the words he'd thrown at her tonight, just before he had stormed out of the restaurant and left her behind.

It's been hours since that fight, and his deepest fear begins to feel more and more like an inevitability.

An intense, searing pain suddenly grips his entire body, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to catch his breath. His heart hammers painfully in his chest, and all the awful what-ifs begin racing through his troubled mind: _What if it's really over between them? What if he had broken Margaret's heart beyond repair?_

_What if she already let go?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All song lyrics © Jamie Lawson  
> Book passage © Anne Michaels, _Fugitive Pieces_


	2. Let the Ashes Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are certain dates that will always stand out like angry red flags on the calendar, entire days and conversations that are seared into his memory and which replay themselves in perfect, heartbreaking detail at the least expected times."

> The world is what the world is  
>  Everybody's gonna hurt like hell sometimes
> 
> —Josh Ritter, "Hopeful"

_I know I make mistakes and I can let you down_  
_Don't always find the words to say_  
_For all this searching you're the best thing that I've found_  
_I'll be hoping you stay_

     It would be so easy to divide their relationship into seasons, wherein summer was the best of times and autumn the worst of times. But nothing about their relationship, from its improbable origins to its current predicament, can be easily sorted into neat, little boxes. As difficult as the autumn would prove to be, what they endured this past October had brought them closer, even if it had sometimes felt like the only way to repair the fractures in their relationship was to completely demolish it and take a long, honest look at whether the foundation was still strong enough to rebuild upon.

Before tonight, he had believed—and believed with every fiber of his being—that surviving those difficult days in October meant that his relationship with Margaret could survive anything, that together they had built something truly indestructible.

He slowly lies back on the freezing cold patio deck and staring up at the starry sky, his thoughts begin to drift back to the weeks leading up to what would be the major turning point in their relationship . . .

\---

The autumn begins with a declaration that goes unanswered, and the sense of unease that seeps into the space between him and Margaret understandably only increases from there. Some days, it feels like they've traveled back in time and their interactions feel as awkward as those of two complete strangers who suddenly find themselves living together as roommates and who are still in the process of learning how to navigate the unfamiliar waters. Perhaps even more unnerving are the moments when he finds himself missing her even though she's right next to him. He misses the woman he fell madly in love with over the summer, his gorgeous girlfriend who would absentmindedly play with her hair as she read her latest library book beside him in their bed every night and who would playfully kiss his cheek to distract him from the fact that she was stealing his Stanford T-shirt from the laundry basket the moment it came out of the dryer.

From the outside, the changes to their relationship are so subtle that he and Margaret most likely appear to be carrying on as they always had. And for the most part, that's true. They still hold hands when they're walking through the farmers' market on Sunday mornings, but they only grasp each other's fingertips instead of lacing their fingers together. They still go to the coffee shop and sit at their usual table, but as they sit across from each other and read the newspaper, the silence between them no longer feels like the companionable silence between two kindred spirits. Instead, he finds himself looking down at the table—where his hand sits close to Margaret's, though not as closely as it once had—and he begins to worry that the silence between them sounds like the silence of two people who no longer have anything to say to each other.

The sex is still as physically satisfying as ever, even if it doesn't happen with the same feeling of spontaneity or with the same frequency that it did over the summer. But it's the dissonance between the physical and emotional intimacy that grates on him, and he feels it most acutely in the moments after they've found their physical release. Whereas he used to hold her in his arms until sleep overtook him, now he finds that he can no longer read the look in her eyes: is she hoping that he'll say those three little words to her while their bodies are so intimately joined? Or dreading that he might? He swallows his own uncertainties and asks her if she's okay like he always does, but his voice sounds strangely hollow to his ears. And when Margaret looks at him with both apprehension and vulnerability etched across her face, his heart clenches because he sees that she can feel him holding back. She nods, her tight smile almost masking the underlying tension, and the silence engulfs them again.

But for one week in early October, the frostiness between them intensifies sharply and swiftly, leaving the house feeling like the Arctic Circle. Suddenly, it seems everything he does is wrong. Even the most seemingly innocuous topics of conversation cause her to tense up and shut him out. At the end of September, his youngest niece, Erin, gives birth to a beautiful baby girl, but when he shows Margaret the picture of his newest grandniece on his phone, her lack of reaction dismays him. He tries to ignore it, but as he continues to cheerfully talk about his family, she seems to be ignoring him as she busies herself with washing the dishes. He talks about his older brothers, Danny and Tim, and about how their close relationship is likely the result of the three of them being born one right after the other. When he casually brings up the large age gap between Henry and Fred, she abruptly slams the dishwasher closed and walks out of the kitchen.

It isn't the first time that she's stormed out of the room, but it's the first time that he has no idea what he's done to provoke such a drastic reaction from her. Arguing was nothing new to them. He freely admits that they're both stubborn, too opinionated and too used to getting their own way to ever back down from a challenge. But their arguments are different that week. In fact, they don't argue at all; there are no heated exchanges or pointed glares, no loudly slammed doors or angrily shouted words. She's cagey and he feels like he's walking on eggshells and the silence is unbearable.

At the beginning of what will prove to be a monumental weekend in their relationship, he wakes to the pale sunlight trickling in through the bedroom curtains and bathing Margaret's sleeping face in a soft glow. The quietness of the house feels tranquil, instead of tense, that morning. The longer he studies Margaret's face, the more beautiful she becomes and the more his hands burn with the desire to feel her skin against his. She begins to stir as his fingertips lightly trace the arch of her eyebrows, the slope of her nose, the swell of her incredible cheekbones, and she slowly blinks the sleep out of her beautiful blue eyes as his fingers comb through her dark hair and tickle the shell of her ear. He traces the outline of her mouth, and the come-hither smile that forms on her lips lets him know that she would eagerly welcome the replacement of his fingertips with his lips.

He gently holds her chin as he moves in closer, but just as his lips brush against hers, the texture of her skin feels different against his thumb. It's faint, but in the early morning sunlight, he discerns a small scar on her chin that he's never noticed before. She blinks in dismay and winces as she turns away from him. Her defenses are back up, and a deep frown darkens her face as she slowly sits up. She keeps her back to him as she pulls on her robe and knots it tightly, and she tenses when he touches her back just between her shoulder blades.

"Don't. Just don't," she cuts him off before he can say anything else and begins getting herself ready for work. Her voice had sounded simultaneously resigned and austere, leaving zero room for argument.

He silently watches her walking away from the bed, and as soon as she disappears into the bathroom, he flops onto his back with an exasperated sigh. Suddenly, the idea of starting the long weekend with a four-hour drive to Branson tomorrow morning and attending his company's annual gala event together doesn't hold quite the same appeal that it once did. He begins to wonder if long weekends have become a cursed thing for them; the Labor Day weekend certainly hadn't been a walk in the park. Though he wouldn't necessarily say that he's dreading the idea of spending the next few days with her, if he's being painfully honest with himself, he can't say that he's looking forward to the idea either. He exhales a heavy, frustrated breath and he can't help thinking that perhaps either sentiment is just as bad as the other.

\---

The house is still too quiet when he walks through the front door that evening. He was supposed to have been back hours ago, but instead of heading home after his last meeting wrapped up, he'd put his phone on silent and found himself aimlessly driving the Silverado through the woods for a few hours in an attempt to clear his head. He closes the door quietly and heads straight for the study, trying to distract himself by going over any last-minute details for tomorrow night's gala.

After a few minutes of staring at his laptop, he hears Margaret's graceful footsteps approaching, and his jaw involuntarily tightens at the thought of another tense interaction. He's fully anticipating being greeted by the sight of a displeased Margaret, with her eyes a steely shade of gray, her frown further sharpening her already defined features, her sculpted arms crossed indignantly, and her voice as cold as ice when she tersely informs him that his dinner's in the fridge.

But when he looks to the doorway, the beautiful woman standing there looks at him with a weariness in her eyes that he's never seen in them before. She looks lost and almost fragile, as if even the slightest breeze could easily topple her. At his height, he has always towered over her, but when he rises to his feet and walks towards her tonight, she seems to physically shrink before his eyes and she looks smaller than ever as she places her hand on the doorframe—either to steady herself or to prevent herself from fleeing the room.

"Can we talk?" she asks, looking down at her feet, and the tinny quality of her usually self-assured voice is startling.

He's not sure what to expect as he makes his way over to the sofa and takes a seat beside her. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, and he isn't sure whether he should break the ice with an apology for missing dinner or if he should patiently wait while she gathers her thoughts.

"The scar on my chin," she begins, her voice barely audible, "that was Warren's doing."

The bile rises in his throat, and the room suddenly feels like it's burning up. She takes a deep breath and keeping her eyes downcast, she hesitantly reaches over to slip her hand into his, her usually steady hand shaking and her usually warm skin clammy to the touch.

"It happened when Henry was in kindergarten. Just before school let out for the summer, Henry got into a fight with another boy on the playground. Everyone was waiting to have a turn on the slide, and Henry cut in line. And when the other boy told Henry that he couldn't do that, Henry said that he was a Langston and that Langstons were special and that the rules didn't apply to them—something he'd heard from Warren's father, Edward, no doubt. Their shoving match quickly turned into an all-out brawl and got them both sent to the principal's office. I picked Henry up from school that afternoon, and I was horrified when I heard the details from Henry's teacher and the principal. Henry was supposed to go bass fishing in the Ozarks with Warren and Edward that week, and a part of me really thought that I should punish my son for his inappropriate behavior by making him stay home. But the other part of me—and I'm not proud to admit this—was just so angry to the point of disgust that I just didn't want to have to deal with him. I dropped Henry off with my in-laws, drove back to the house, and tried to talk to Warren about what had happened. I asked him to speak with Henry and to explain to him why his words and actions were unacceptable. Of course, Warren dismissed the whole incident just like I anticipated he would, but I refused to back down. And I suppose there was something abhorrent to him about being reminded that Henry was _our_ son, because when I insisted that Henry was his responsibility too, he just snapped. I don't know whether he was aiming for my head, but he didn't miss by much."

She shudders as the awful memory begins to replay itself in her mind—the loud crash of the heavy double Old Fashioned glass against the wall just mere inches from her head, the sharp pain of the glass shard slicing into her skin, the pooling of the warm, sticky, crimson blood drops in the center of her palm as she cupped her chin to keep the blood from falling onto the expensive dining room rug. But mostly, it is the cruel words that Warren had bellowed when he threw the empty glass at her—his disdain for her and the deep resentments he had about their unhappy marriage suddenly and startlingly laid bare—that still echo the loudest: _Goddammit, Margaret! Will you just shut the hell up? I cannot stand being in the same room as you, having to listen to your goddamn voice and looking at your goddamn face!_

Her expression is sullen and her eyes are full of tears, but she makes a valiant effort not to let any of them fall. His thumb caresses her temple when he tucks her long hair back behind her ear, and his gentleness causes her eyes to change colors from resolute steel gray to heartbroken turquoise. And as a single tear slowly rolls down her cheek, he can see traces of the beautiful young woman who had run from the room and locked herself in the bathroom as Warren continued to throw everything in sight that he could get his hands on, reducing the dining room to rubble. He can clearly envision 25-year-old Margaret with her hands shaking as she dislodged the jagged glass fragment and did her best to carefully stitch up her skin so that the evidence of Warren's abuse would never show, her tears streaming down her cheeks the entire time and causing the wound to sting just that much more.

"It gets worse. So much worse," she says in a small voice. She can't look him in the eye, and as he watches her nervously chewing her bottom lip, he realizes that she's about to tell him something she's never revealed to another living soul. "There wasn't supposed to be such a big age gap between Henry and Fred. I never confirmed it with a doctor, but . . . I was pregnant at the time."

His heart plummets and his head is suddenly spinning, as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room as he looks into Margaret's watery, regret-filled eyes.

"I didn't want another child," she admits. "I didn't love Warren and he didn't love me, and I was already so overwhelmed with Henry. But it had been nearly ten weeks, and all the signs were there. Just when I was beginning to accept the inevitable and even began looking forward to being a mother again, that terrible argument happened. I didn't want to bring another child into the mess that was Warren's and my marriage, and that night, as I was cleaning up what was left of the dining room, I found myself once again wishing that there was no baby. And the next day, I got my wish."

It feels like a tidal wave has slammed into him and is mercilessly pulling him under. He can't find the words to say to her, and even if he could, the tightness constricting his throat would have prevented them from ever coming out. He clasps her hand in his and presses his lips so firmly against her knuckles that the pain causes his lips to go numb and thankfully also keeps him from screaming every profane expression he knows.

"I ran my errands like I always did, but when I got back to the house I suddenly felt ill and there was this pain in my lower back. I was bleeding heavily and at first, I was scared because I didn't know what it meant. And then I couldn't stop crying, because I realized exactly what was happening. It wasn't until I was losing the baby that I suddenly wanted it more than anything. But by then, it was too late," she says, her voice breaking as she presses her fingertips to her trembling lips. "It doesn't matter how many medical articles I read telling me that these things just happen sometimes and that there was nothing I could have done because there was simply something wrong with the baby. I'm always going to feel like it was all my fault somehow. Because I didn't want the baby enough.

"I never told anyone about what happened. I didn't have anyone I could tell," she says quietly, the loneliness in her voice hitting him like a hard punch to the gut. "I figured no one would feel any sympathy for me anyway—I already had a healthy son, and I was still young enough to have more children. And I never told Warren. It was his child, and I suppose that he had a right to know. But I just couldn't face telling him something that painful and having him respond with his usual indifference. I thought about going out to my dad's farm, but things had been so strained between us ever since my wedding day. So, I just dealt with it on my own, terrified as I was."

She shakes her head quickly, as if to shake away the memory of those lonely, anxious days she spent recuperating. "I can't explain it, Brian, but somehow I just know that it was a girl and that I would have named her after my mother," she says tearfully with a weak smile before taking a deep, steadying breath. "I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. I know that I haven't been very pleasant to be around these past few weeks, and I know that telling you all of this doesn't make up for it. I hope you know that I always enjoy hearing about your family and that I am genuinely happy for your niece. But it's been really difficult to hear all these wonderful things about your family and to not feel crushed by this deep sense of regret for all the things that just didn't happen for me."

They sit beside each other in silence for a few minutes before Margaret hesitantly raises her eyes to meet his, looking at him with such despair in her large, blue eyes. Her gaze falls away again, and he can see that she's trying to blink away the rapidly welling tears as she stares at their interlocked hands. He realizes that she's misinterpreted his silence as a lack of sympathy, and he can feel both of their hearts sinking together.

"It's getting late," she says hurriedly, her voice and her legs equally unsteady as she lets go of his hand and rises from her seat. "I'm really tired. I think I'm just going to go to bed."

"Margaret—"

He tries to reach for her hand, but she's already out the door.

\---

He walks into the bedroom later that night to see Margaret lying curled up in the fetal position, looking so small, like a frightened child. Their eyes meet across the darkened room, and she turns away from him, hiding her tear-stained face in her pillow, and his heart slowly fractures when he hears her sniffling softly.

He changes into his pajamas and lies down beside her, their bodies in such close proximity that without even touching her he can feel the tension all along her spine. He wants so much to reach out and wrap his arms around her, but he's not sure if he should. After she'd hastily walked out of the study, he'd remained rooted to his seat on the sofa and racked his brain, desperately trying to find the right words to say to her, to comfort her. He turns onto his side, takes a deep breath, and exhales it slowly. He still doesn't know what to say to her, but he knows that Margaret really needs for him to try right now.

Placing his hand on her back just between her shoulder blades, he can feel the trembling of her slender frame as she tries to stifle a sob. "I love being in the same room as you. I love the sound of your voice. And I love the way you look," he says softly.

"I don't," she says, her voice thick with sadness and barely audible.

He can no longer bear the distance between them, and he slides over to her side of the bed, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling the back of her neck. Holding her in his arms as she weeps, he begins to understand just how difficult this day has been for her. She had slowly built up the courage to reveal a long-held and tragic secret, to reach out to him and open a little more of her fragile heart to him. She had sat alone at the dinner table and waited for him for hours, and he had sent her hurtling back to square one by disappearing for the evening without a word. Somehow, she found her way past her fears and placed her trust in him yet again, only to be deeply disappointed and hurt.

"I'm so sorry that I didn't come home when I was supposed to. Everything feels like it's been out of sorts lately, and I just needed to get some air. I ended up driving down to the lake, and it just wasn't the same without you. I sat at the end of the dock, staring off into space for hours and wishing you were there with me," he tells her with a sigh. "I miss us."

She looks over her shoulder at him, looking so pale and so lost. He can see the uncertainty swirling in her eyes, and he can hear her silently asking him the questions she's too scared to ask out loud: _You and me? Are we still an us?_

"I'm right here, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere," he promises, kissing her cheek. "I'm sorry that I didn't say something earlier when you told me about . . . 

"I still don't know what to say, except that I wish like hell that it hadn't happened and that you hadn't been alone through all of it. I know that you blame yourself, but none of it was your fault, Margaret. You should never have been made to feel guilt or shame about what happened. And when I didn't say anything or hold you when you really needed to be held, I made you feel those things all over again. God! I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry for all the hurt I've caused you, and I'm so sorry about your little girl."

She turns in his arms and buries her face in his chest. Her arms slowly wrap around him, and she clings to him tightly as her hot tears soak into his shirt. He holds her a little tighter, cradling her head gently against his heart and keeping his lips firmly pressed against her forehead as he combs his fingers through her silken hair.

"I'm sure that she would have been the most beautiful little thing and that she would have been an absolute gift to this world," he whispers to her, gently tilting her chin upwards. "Just like her mother."

He dries the tears on her cheeks, and it catches him by surprise how he can still become completely undone by those beautiful blue eyes.

For weeks, this awful sense of dread has tormented him, twisted and gnawed its way to the bone. Though he has tried his best not to harbor resentment towards her for not telling him the words he longs to hear, he could not prevent a stormcloud of uneasiness from forming above him. So preoccupied with his own hurt feelings and the fear that Margaret might never love him in return, he had walled off a part of his heart. And while that had effectively stopped the pain from spreading any further, it had also meant shutting out the one and only person who could heal the pain. Without his even realizing it, he had allowed the cloud of uneasiness that had been hanging over him to descend and gradually infiltrate the space between him and Margaret, rending them apart.

But when Margaret gently caresses his lips like she's done so many times before and says his name—her usually resonant voice sounding so small, yet brimming with such tenderness and vulnerability—he simply takes a breath. Filling his lungs with her allows a kind of clarity to come over him, and he begins to understand that he couldn't feel this wrenching ache in his heart or grieve with her over something that had happened years before he'd even been born unless he genuinely lives by the three little words he'd said to her on that starry September night. And Margaret could never have revealed something so personal and private and painful to anyone else.

He continues to live in constant awe of this woman, for as frightened as she is, she keeps choosing to trust him, to let him in a little more. _Keep choosing me, sweetheart_ , he silently prays. 

"You and me," he whispers to her, affectionately nuzzling his nose against hers.

Looking into Margaret's eyes that night, he'd made a choice: he would try—really try—to rid himself of any last traces of the disquiet that had been eating away at him. She had quickly kissed his cheek before laying her head on his chest and for the first time in weeks, they had held onto each other through the night. Though the distance between them still remained, one well-timed and heartfelt declaration from him had helped to guide them forward and towards each other once again.

* * *

_I know you're perfect, shattered and broken_  
_I know you're perfect, just you be who you are_

     The wind speed has picked up, and he pulls his coat tighter as he slowly sits back up. He runs his hands through his hair and kneads the tight muscles in his neck. As he watches his heavily exhaled breath billowing thickly on the cold, winter air, he thinks about the last time he had felt as hollowed out as he does now and how he had watched his breaths as they slowly left his aching body. It had happened on a chilly morning in October after one of the worst nights of his life, the memory of which continues to haunt him still . . . 

\---

There are certain dates that will always stand out like angry red flags on the calendar, entire days and conversations that are seared into his memory and which replay themselves in perfect, heartbreaking detail at the least expected times.

The crisp autumn day when he and Margaret go to Branson for his company's annual gala starts off so wonderfully that nothing could have prepared him for the sharp turn of events that would take place that night. On the drive through the Ozark Mountains, it feels like the romantic spark in their relationship has been rekindled. She breaks off bite-sized pieces of the cinnamon apple turnovers they'd picked up for breakfast and feeds them to him as he drives, and he playfully kisses her fingertips every time she tries to wipe away the flakes at the corners of his mouth. The conversation and the laughter between them flow freely; even the moments when they aren't talking, simply listening to the classic rock songs on the radio and taking in the beautiful scenery as they hold each other's hand, feel relaxed and effortless.

The long drive is an enjoyable one, and it flies by in a flash. They arrive at the spa resort feeling rested and refreshed, and everything about their luxurious suite on the top floor sets the stage for a romantic weekend getaway. There is a bottle of champagne on ice waiting for them on the living room table, and the small fire burning in the stone fireplace suffuses the entire room with a warm glow and the pleasant melody of the crackling firewood. They set their things down in the large, light-filled bedroom and the slightly mischievous smiles exchanged between them and the rosy blush in her cheeks let him know that perhaps she's also looking forward to taking full advantage of the spacious hotel bed and the two-person whirlpool bathtub tonight. They share a glass of champagne and snuggle by the fire as they wait for their room service lunch to arrive. She leans back against his chest, and their fingers lightly play with each other's as he nuzzles her neck. She turns her face to kiss his cheek, and the soft brush of her lips sets his heart racing and leaves him feeling both calm and exhilarated.

The sweeping views of the lake and the mountains provide a lovely backdrop as they finish off the bottle of champagne over a long lunch. They go for a leisurely hand-in-hand stroll through town, doing some window shopping and sharing a decadent dessert and lattes at a cozy, little coffee shop before he has to meet a few of his work colleagues for a short game of golf. Her goodbye kiss is still tingling on his cheek hours later and his performance on the links that afternoon is a departure from its usual standards, but he's far too distracted by daydream after pleasant daydream about Margaret's kisses and all the fun the two of them could be having back in their hotel room to care.

She looks absolutely stunning when she emerges from the bathroom that evening. Her long hair is styled in a sophisticated chignon that elongates that beautiful neck of hers, her evening makeup highlights every gorgeous facial feature, and her little black dress accentuates the contours of her slender figure. He can't take his eyes off her as she helps him with his cuff links and straightens his silk necktie. She hands him her necklace with a demure smile as she slowly turns around, and his jaw nearly hits the floor. From its simple and elegant high neckline, he wouldn't have expected that the back of her dress would show off her upper back as wonderfully as it does. He can't resist touching her warm skin, and that urge only grows stronger as the evening progresses.

The sexual tension sizzles between them that night. Their eyes constantly find each other across the crowded ballroom, and every brush of her hand sends an electric rush through him. The scent of her perfume goes straight to his head, leaving him feeling slightly off balance and out of breath that he's grateful beyond words he doesn't have to give a speech when he's presented with an award from his company. There's a live band and dancing after the awards banquet concludes, but after just one song, the sensation of her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck coupled with his hands moving dangerously lower and lower on her hips is simply too much, and they slip away as quickly and covertly as possible.

As soon as they're back in their room, he kicks the door closed a little more forcefully than he'd intended to and immediately has Margaret pressed up against the door, his hands pinning her slender wrists above her head as his lips latch onto the pulse point on her neck. They fumble their way through the darkened hotel suite, both of them giddy with laughter when they finally cross the threshold into the bedroom, and her deft hands make such quick work of his clothes that he's completely stripped down to only his boxer briefs before they've even made it to the bed. He stands behind her, his hands slowly ascending her sides before they knead her breasts, and she reaches up, her fingernails lightly digging into his scalp as she directs his mouth back to her neck. His lips move round to her nape, and he kisses his way down the back of her neck before taking the zipper's pull tab into his mouth, slowly dropping to his knees as he unzips her dress with his teeth. The first glimpse of her lacy, black lingerie causes him to groan in approval, and she shivers when the hot rush of his breath hits her lower back and his hands slide up her spine to slip her dress off her shoulders and down over the curves of her hips. He remains on his knees and watches the sway of her hips as she walks across the room, unhooking her strapless bra and letting it fall to the floor on her way to the bed. The bedroom curtains are still wide open, and the silvery moonlight enhances every perfect detail of her.

"Make love to me, Brian," she says as she takes a seat atop the plush duvet. And keeping her eyes locked on his the entire time, she slips off her black Louboutin pumps and crawls backwards onto the large, inviting bed in the most seductive fashion.

He's on his feet in a flash. Standing at the foot of the bed, he's panting hard as his eyes drink in the sight before him. The contrast of her flushed skin and dark hair against the pristine white bedding as she lies on the king size bed in only her lace panties, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark with desire as she watches him stripping off the last of his clothing, takes his breath away. He loves watching her, loves being mesmerized by all the ways her lithe little body shivers with anticipation beneath him—the way she sensually rubs the inside of each creamy thigh along the hardened length of him, the way she arches her swanlike neck and bites her bottom lip, the sound of her gasping moans as his hands fondle her beautiful breasts and his tongue teases her perfect nipples—and something animalistic and primitive takes complete control of him. His heart is pounding so furiously that he can hardly hear a thing over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears as he pulls her panties down her long, shapely legs. Then, he roughly grabs her by her hips, flips her onto her stomach, and yanks her up onto her knees. He positions himself on the bed behind her, and the enticing sight of her down on all fours coupled with the first hint of the exquisite heat of her sex on his skin makes him throb even harder, and he feels like he'll explode if he doesn't sheathe himself inside her right then and there.

But when he grasps her slender hips again, it's as if an icy dagger has been plunged deep into his heart. Margaret has gone as still as a statue, her body as rigid and pale and cold to the touch as Carrara marble. And she's not breathing.

Ignoring the throbbing ache in his groin as best he can, he immediately pulls his hands away and crawls around the bed until he's sitting face to face with her. She slowly sits back on her knees, and the look of sheer terror in her eyes freezes his heart in an instant. He cautiously reaches forward to cup her face in his hands with as much tenderness as possible, but her eyes widen with fear and she flinches when they come into contact with each other. He's dizzy with nausea as he repeats her name over and over, but she continues to look right through him with no recognition in her eyes, and he realizes that she's a million miles—and several decades—away.

"Sweetheart?" he whispers, gently caressing her lips.

The fog instantly lifts from her eyes, only to be immediately replaced with tears as she frantically looks around the room in complete confusion. She's shivering uncontrollably, her shallow breaths coming in such rapid succession, and she tries to cover up her freezing, naked skin with her trembling hands as he grabs the hotel robe from the foot of the bed and wraps it around her. She immediately pulls the robe closed tightly around herself, cowering away from him when he tries to wrap his arms around her.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" he asks, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice.

She presses her trembling lips together tightly, unable to bring her tear-filled eyes to meet his as large tears roll down her cheeks. She turns away from him and slowly climbs out of the bed, her footsteps so quiet and unsteady as she makes her way to the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

It takes a couple more minutes for his heart to stop racing, and he pulls on his boxer briefs before he gathers their clothes from the floor, folds them as neatly as he can manage, and packs them back into their suitcases. His stomach feels all knotted up as he makes his way to the bathroom door. He says her name gently as he knocks on the door, but there's no reply. Taking a deep breath to steel himself for what he might find on the other side, he slowly opens the door and is temporarily disoriented by the harsh glare of the all-white marble bathroom. The room suddenly feels as vast and frozen as a tundra. His eyes frantically dart around the room until they finally locate Margaret, and the sight of her sitting in the bathtub with her knees hugged tightly to her chest knocks the wind out of him. Her muffled sobs reverberate off the pale marble at a deafening volume, and his whole body suddenly feels as if it's made of lead. The space between them seems to expand as he tries to walk towards her, causing his heart to begin racing with an irrational, yet acute fear that he might never reach her. He's shaking as he slowly climbs into the bathtub and sits down across from her, and for the first time in a really long time, he's almost afraid to touch her.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks her again with trepidation as he gently sweeps her long hair back behind her ears.

Her face crumples at his question, and he can see that she wants to tell him something but that she can't do so with him looking at her with such intense concern in his eyes. He covers her hands with his and lowers his gaze so that he's looking at their hands, and he listens to her shallow, shuddering breaths as she slowly summons the courage to reveal another tragic secret to him.

"I remembered something tonight, something I thought I had buried forever. The night of Warren's father's funeral, I was already in bed when Warren came upstairs. He closed the door, climbed on top of me, and I just stared at the wall and waited for it to be over with like I always did. I could tell from the way he was breathing that he couldn't . . . finish and that he was growing more and more frustrated. After about a minute or so, he stopped trying. He rolled off of me and got out of bed and I thought that was the end of it. But instead of leaving the room, he angrily called me a frigid bitch and then he . . . he grabbed me by my hips, flipped me onto my stomach, pulled me onto my knees, and he . . . he was really rough with me," she says in a hushed, strangled voice, covering her face in shame.

She can't bring herself to say the word, and he's almost certain that he would vomit at the sound of it. He already feels sick to his stomach and completely disgusted with himself when he thinks about just how closely his actions tonight had mirrored those of Warren Langston's all those years ago; how for a few fraught seconds, Margaret had been looking right at him, but she hadn't seen him—she'd seen Warren.

His guilt is tearing him to shreds and it must have shown, because he can see it staring back at him in Margaret's watery eyes and he can hear it in her panic-stricken voice as the words come tumbling out of her. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I know that you're blaming yourself right now, and I don't want that. It wasn't your fault. You didn't know. You didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't that I didn't want you earlier, because I did-I mean, I do. I always do," she tells him, her eyes darting away as a deep shudder racks her body. "But not like that. I can't do it like that, Brian. I just can't."

"Oh sweetheart, please don't apologize," he begs her. "My God, I am so sorry! Everything just felt so different tonight. I don't know what came over me. I just thought trying a new position might be mind-blowing for both of us. But if you're not comfortable with us having sex that way, that's okay. We won't do it that way. I would never force you to do anything you're not comfortable with. I would never force myself on you. My God, I would never hurt you like that!" he tells her frantically, with tears welling in his eyes as he brings her hands to his lips and kisses them firmly.

"I know. I know you wouldn't," she says quietly, but as she stares off into the distance, her lips begin to tremble as a fresh wave of emotion overpowers her. "That night, I . . . I didn't say no," she confesses, her voice so small and yet so full of guilt and shame. "I didn't say anything. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I never realized how much bigger and stronger than me Warren was until that night. For a few seconds, I really thought he might kill me. He had his hand on the back of my neck and he was shoving my face so hard into the mattress that I couldn't breathe. I wanted to scream, to beg him to stop, but I . . . " Her hand is shaking so hard when she covers her mouth, stifling the deep howl of despair that so desperately needs to be let out. "I didn't want the boys to hear. I didn't want for them to walk in and see that."

She breaks down in sobs as his arms envelop her, and it feels like his life is slowly being wrung out of his body as the vise-like pain in his chest shoots up his neck and down through his arms. He loves this woman more than anything. How could he not be completely in love with her, completely in awe of her? How was it possible that even as something so unconscionable was happening to her, Margaret's first and only thought had been about protecting her children?

"It never happened again, and I wish I could say that it only happened because he'd simply had too much to drink. But the frightening thing is that I don't remember him reeking of whiskey that night. Maybe that's who Warren really was when he was stone cold sober," she tells him, her voice still trembling hard. "I am just so grateful that I didn't get pregnant from that night. I know that I'm not a good person. I really don't know if I would have been able to love a child that had been conceived from that. I'm glad I never had to find out."

She wipes away the tears on her cheeks and covers her face with her shaking hands. "I don't blame him, Brian. I was never the wife he wanted. I just wasn't enough," she whispers in defeat. "It was all my fault."

"No! Don't ever say that!" he says angrily. His emotions violently wrench him in every which way, his heart bleeding for the person he loves most in this world while his rage towards Warren Langston causes his blood to boil to the point that he temporarily sees red.

She peers up at him with those distinctively large and expressive blue eyes, with all the innocence of a frightened, confused child who is looking to the grown-up for all the answers. "Why?" she sobs. "Why did he do it? What did I ever do to deserve that?"

His heart shatters into a million tiny fragments, and he can only wordlessly stare at her with apology in his warm brown eyes as he slowly shakes his head. For all his effort, his voice comes out as nothing more than an unsteady, hoarse whisper. "I don't know why it happened. I'm so sorry, Margaret. I just don't have any answers."

Her gaze slowly falls away, and the forlorn expression in her turquoise eyes makes him feel completely helpless. "I wish I was someone else. I wish I'd had a different life," she confesses so softly, more to herself than to him.

There is a haunted and faraway look in her eyes, and the light in her eyes begins to flicker and fade. He says her name with a heavy sigh and reaches out to gently cup her cheek, but it's as if he's grasping at nothing, as if Margaret is slipping through his fingers. There is a sudden splintering and high-pitched ringing in his ears, and his heart begins hammering painfully against his ribs because he realizes what's happening. She's dissolving into thin air right before his very eyes, and he frantically pulls Margaret into a crushing embrace as his tears fall into her hair.

"No! No! Don't let go, Margaret! Please! Don't leave me!" he cries. "There's still so much I need to tell you."

She's weeping uncontrollably when he gathers her into his arms, her shaking hands desperately clinging to him and her slender frame tightly curling into the fetal position as she buries her face in his chest. It's as if a bomb has been detonated within his core, as if his heart has imploded and is rapidly crumbling to dust as the sounds of her anguished sobs and the heat of her scalding tears slice through him.

His fingers tangle in her hair as he cradles her head against his chest, gently rocking both of them back and forth and whispering to her that, "Everything's going to be okay. I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here. We're together now and you're safe, I promise. He can't hurt you anymore, and if he ever returns, I won't let him come anywhere near you. As long as there's breath in my body, I swear that I'll always protect you."

He soothingly rubs her back, and she cries until there are no more tears left to cry. It feels like an eternity before he feels her go heavy in his arms, having quite literally cried herself to sleep. The burning sensation in his chest gradually lessens and when he's regained enough of his strength, he scoops her into his arms and steadily rises to his feet. Her overtired body feels completely limp in his arms as he carries her back to the bedroom, and he lays her down gently on the bed.

\---

The entire night, he had laid awake beside her and kept vigil as he watched her sleep. Her arms were pulled so defensively tight around her that throughout the night he would untangle her locked limbs as carefully as possible to prevent her from waking up in pain. Every now and then he would drift off, only to be startled awake by the sound of her whimpering as nightmares plagued her fitful sleep. On more than one occasion, he had wanted to pull her thrashing body into his arms, but he feared doing so would only make her feel trapped and frighten her more. It had taken all of his strength to wait and hope, running his fingers through her hair and firmly kissing her forehead until the nightmare eventually passed.

At long last, the dawn had broken, bitterly cold and gray, and perhaps his subconscious mind was simply trying to help him cope with the drastically altered reality he'd suddenly been flung into, because he can't explain why he'd put on his running shoes and gone for his usual morning run. One minute he was softly kissing Margaret's cheek as he left a small, handwritten note on the bedside table to let her know that he would be back soon; the next minute, he was staring out at a pristine lake as the sun rose over the distant hills. How he got there was a complete blur.

He vaguely remembers jogging at a comfortable pace along the running track surrounding the resort, but the next thing he knew, some strange force had overtaken him and he'd made a sharp turn for the woods. He ran as hard and as fast as his legs could carry him and his entire body felt like it was burning up from within, the sharp pain in his side twisting ever deeper into him. He had held back his tears as best as he could the previous night, telling himself that he needed to be strong for Margaret. But that morning, even with the sound of his furiously pounding heart echoing at a deafening volume in his ears, Margaret's sorrowful voice had echoed even louder: _What did I ever do to deserve that?_

His blood felt like it was on fire as his rage coursed through his veins like a toxin. He'd never considered himself to be a wrathful person, but for a few seconds Brian had almost wished that Warren Langston would return, if only so that he could have the pleasure of watching the life go out of Warren's eyes when he killed the bastard with his bare hands.

Everything had started to go black when his hands reached out and found a hickory tree to support himself from collapsing in a heap, and then he'd doubled over and vomited. His throat had felt painfully raw, as if he'd been screaming at the top of his lungs for hours. He continued to retch until he was dry-heaving, unable to catch his breath, and every muscle in his body had felt like it was being clawed apart. Finally, his legs had given out and slumping against the tree, he'd slowly sank to his knees, buried his head in his hands, and let his sobs rip him in half. He wept harder than he'd ever wept before in his life, his heart breaking all over again because he couldn't reverse the events of the past and protect the person he loves most. He let the bitter tears come down in a torrent until he was left feeling completely exhausted and empty, a hollow shell of his former self.

After a few minutes of sitting on the forest floor in a heavy stupor, simply watching his breaths leaving his body and mixing with the chilled air, his breathing had grown less and less shallow and his thready pulse had strengthened and slowed back to its normal, resting state. The worst of the storm had passed, and an inexplicable calmness had slowly washed over him as he watched the first rays of sunlight glittering on the lake's surface. He'd felt the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and closing his eyes, he had thought about a different sunrise on a different lake.

 _Margaret_. He had whispered her name over and over to himself, and the two syllables that make up her name had gradually synchronized with the beating of his heart. Not wanting her to wake up frightened and all alone in their hotel room, he had somehow summoned the strength to pick up his weary body and find his way out of the woods and back to her.

* * *

_Nobody will harm you, I will be love's volunteer_  
_When you wake up know that I'll still be here_  
_Rest in these arms of mine, troubles be gone_  
_Give in so your heart will allow_  
_To let love hold you now_

     When he gets back to their room, Margaret is still fast asleep under the covers. He quietly slips off his running shoes and lies down next to her for a few minutes, simply watching her sleep as he runs his fingers through her hair. The storms inside gradually calm, and with a kiss on her cheek, he breathes her in deeply before making his way to the bathroom to take a shower.

He loses track of the time as he stands under the gentle spray of the rainfall shower, the relaxing patter of the water against his aching muscles nearly lulling his tired body back to sleep, until he hears Margaret lightly tapping on the glass. She chews her bottom lip nervously before she slowly turns around, standing with her back to him as she shyly removes her robe. When she turns back around, she's covering herself with her small, trembling hands and though her eyes are downcast, he can tell that they're brimming with vulnerability. He opens the shower door, and she steps into his awaiting embrace. He feels her warm, ragged breaths on his chest when she shivers, and he keeps one arm wrapped around her as he reaches behind him to adjust the water temperature for her.

She looks up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and the most heartbreakingly beautiful shade of turquoise, and when she timidly reaches up to caress his lips with her fingertips, it feels like an entire lifetime has passed since he last felt her soft lips against his own.

"My God, how long has it been since I kissed you? I mean, really kissed you?" he asks her.

"Too long," she replies, her voice fragile with sadness.

Perhaps the catharsis has re-instilled a calmness and a constancy into their relationship that had been missing for the past few weeks. That morning, all the shattered pieces begin to fall back into place, and he is unconcerned with anything beyond the rediscovery of Margaret's kisses. In that moment, he is simply Brian Addison—simply an ordinary man deeply in love with an extraordinary woman. He holds her close, seeking the solace that can always be found in the softness of her skin, in the pleasure of her tongue's caress, in the synchronicity of her heart beating in time with his, and lets the warm water wash away what it can.

After they've showered and dressed, he sits on the edge of the bathtub and silently watches her as she combs her long hair and packs away her toiletries. She doesn't bother with putting on any makeup and he understands why when their eyes meet in the mirror. Not only can he see the tremendous exhaustion within her eyes, he can also see the hundreds of tears that are still waiting to fall, and his heart aches to know that Margaret is still in such anguish and that she will most likely spend the remaining days of the long weekend in bed. He looks down at his hands and catching a glimpse of the bathtub out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly feels sick to his stomach again as the unpleasant memories of the previous night come flooding back.

"Brian?"

She says his name with such tenderness that he's drowning in his guilt all over again, and he can only hang his head in shame. He should be the one comforting her right now, not the other way around. She gently lifts his chin but he can't look at her, fearing that he will completely dissolve into a million fragments if he does. The feeling of her running her fingers through his hair helps to alleviate some of the tension in his shoulders, and he takes a deep, cleansing breath when she slips her hands into his, lacing their fingers together. Their lips meet in the most delicate kiss, and he prays that he'll find strength enough for the both of them.

The room service meal he'd ordered for them late last night arrives a few minutes later. Though he can see that Margaret has no appetite and is eager to check out of the hotel and get back to the house as soon as possible, she kisses his cheek and takes a seat across from him, and he loves her for making an effort for his sake, for indulging his need to try to take care of her. They eat breakfast together in a companionable silence, reaching across the small table to hold each other's hand every now and then.

They pack up the rest of their things afterwards, and Brian places a reassuring kiss on Margaret's hand before he grabs their luggage and begins heading towards the door. But Margaret remains frozen in place as she stares at the unmade bed, her lips trembling as a sudden, powerful wave of tears overtakes her. He panics that she's reliving the events of that awful night—and of last night—and his entire body feels like it's being reduced to ashes as he drops everything and quickly walks back over to where she's standing.

"I'm sorry," she says in a voice barely above a whisper, a large tear rolling down her cheek as she looks anywhere but at him. "Brian, I'm so sorry. Please don't be mad at me."

"Shh, come here, sweetheart," he says, holding her beautiful face in his hands. "Why in the world would I be mad at you?"

"Because it was supposed to be a special night for you. I swear I never meant to ruin it. I've been carrying that darkness, that sadness inside of me for so long. I never told anyone about what happened that night because . . . because saying it out loud made it real. And also because I never had anyone in my life that I could trust enough to talk to about it. But it was unfair of me to unburden myself to you like that. I never should have done that to you. I'm sorry, my darling. I'm so sorry," she sobs, turning away from him with such anguish in her eyes and covering her face with her hands. "The last thing I ever want to do is bring darkness and sadness to your life."

His arms encircle her, and after a few seconds of hesitation, her breathing calms and she slowly turns in his arms.

"You haven't ruined anything, sweetheart. You're still the most extraordinary thing in my life, still perfect and whole," he assures her, and his heart breaks all over again when Margaret shakes her head dejectedly and her tears fall even harder. He bends down to touch his forehead to hers, and he can taste her tears on his lips when he places a small kiss on her nose. "The world is full of darkness and sadness, my love, but you don't represent those things. You bring so much light, so much happiness to my life."

There are still tears in her beautiful blue eyes and her kiss is as light as the morning mist upon his cheek. Her fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, and for a few seconds, it feels as if the world has stopped spinning just for them.

"I just want to go home, Brian," she says in a voice so small and yet filled such profound heartache.

 _Home_. The sound of Margaret's lovely voice whispering that lovely word floods his heart with both mirth and sorrow, and he's never known what it is to feel such intense longing for a place until this very moment.

"Me too," he says with a heavy sigh. Holding her close, he presses a warm kiss to her cheek and uses his sleeve to wipe away the last traces of her tears.

\---

The sun is shining warmly and the autumn leaves slowly trickle down from the trees and onto the hilly road that leads back to Arcadia. Brian keeps one hand on the steering wheel and with the other, he holds Margaret's hand the entire drive, occasionally bringing her hand to his lips as she drifts in and out of sleep.

The house feels different that afternoon. The landscape feels familiar, and yet vastly transformed, as if the sea change in his and Margaret's relationship could also chemically alter the space they inhabit. For a few seconds, it feels like he's mistakenly entered someone else's house. But that momentary feeling evaporates into thin air as quickly as it had arrived, and though it's only been a little over twenty-four hours since they were last here, he's suddenly struck by the feeling of having come home after an arduous, years-long journey. Whereas just a few days ago the echoing silence had grated on his nerves, it now calms and comforts him as he carries a soundly sleeping Margaret in his arms through the halcyon, light-filled house and lays her down gently on their bed.

He quietly unpacks their things, and Margaret looks up at him with tired eyes when he returns from the laundry room. Their hands brush against each other's when he hands her her pajamas, and the tentative, apologetic expression in her eyes lets him know that she's not completely comfortable with him being in the room while she undresses. Though it feels like they've taken an enormous step backwards, he swallows the painful lump in his throat and accedes to her request with a sympathetic smile. He heads to the bathroom and takes his time with filling the bedside carafe with cold water and grabbing the box of tissues from the vanity.

She's sitting at the edge of the bed and staring down at her hands when he walks back into the bedroom.

"I'll let you get some rest. I'll just be in the study if you need anything," he tells her as he places the carafe and the tissues on the bedside table for her.

She nods in reply, but her gaze remains focused on her hands. Her long hair partially obstructs his view of her face, but he can tell by the way that she's chewing her bottom lip that there's something she wants to ask him, though she isn't quite sure how to do so. He kneels down and gently covers her hands with his.

"Will you . . . could you just hold me until I fall asleep again?" she asks, her fingers trembling as she grasps at his fingertips and hesitantly raises her eyes to meet his.

Her voice has never sounded so small and fragile, and she struggles to keep her tears from falling—tears of shame about what happened all those years ago, of anger and disgust for the weakness she perceives in herself. But it is the guilt-ridden way she looks at him that causes his heart to completely crumble to dust. He wants to tell her not to blame herself, to reassure her that she hasn't dragged him anywhere that he wasn't already willing to go, and to let her know that she doesn't have to endure the fallout from this unfathomable thing in her past all on her own.

But the right words elude him, and he can only answer her with a nod and a chaste kiss. He climbs into their bed and she quietly cries herself to sleep in his arms, her tears soaking into his shirt as he kisses her hair and tries to keep his own breathing as steady as possible, even though he's never felt so powerless.

"Everything's going to be okay," he whispers over and over, as much to her as to himself, though he finds it difficult to discern any truth in his words.

Long after she's fallen asleep, he continues to hold her in his arms as he lies there staring at the ceiling with his heart pierced in a million places. Her hand is gripping his shirt so tightly that it causes him actual, physical pain to have to gently loosen her delicate fingers and disentangle himself from her. Margaret curls up in the fetal position almost immediately, and he pulls the covers tight around her small frame. He kneels down and touches his forehead to hers, feeling the prick of fresh tears when her warm breath caresses his lips. It tears him apart to know that he cannot reverse the painful events of the past, and the selfish coward in him, the one who has lived a charmed life devoid of any turmoil, doesn't know if he has it in him to be whatever Margaret needs him to be.

"I'm so sorry, Margaret. I just don't know what to say or what I can do. My God, I wish like hell that I knew how to help you through this," he apologizes, wiping his eyes with his sleeve and taking a deep breath. There's a part of him that wants to run as far away as he possibly can, but the longer he studies Margaret's face—so pale with sorrow, and yet as undeniably beautiful as ever in the soft autumn sunlight—the more certain he grows in his conviction that what he feels for her is stronger than any other force on Earth. "I know that we both feel so lost right now. But I'm here, sweetheart. And I would gladly suffer anything to spare you from even one second of pain. Please don't let go. Don't leave me," he begs her with a gentle kiss on her cheek.

Time passes so slowly that day. He tries to distract himself by sorting through all of the emails in his inbox and doing small tasks around the house, but mostly he finds himself staring at the clock and checking in on Margaret throughout the day. She sleeps like she hasn't slept in years, and he quietly goes about refilling the bedside carafe for her and gathering all the used tissues on the bed into the wastebasket, always tenderly kissing her cheek before he leaves the room.

He prepares a simple dinner for them, and while the soup simmers on the stove, he crawls under the covers with her and feels the tension in her tightly coiled body gradually lessen the longer he holds her in his arms. He's able to doze off for a few minutes until the kitchen timer goes off, and he gently wakes her by running his fingers through her soft hair and whispering that dinner will be ready in a few minutes.

Her eyes are a little puffy when she walks into the kitchen at sunset, but it brings him some comfort to see her smiling at him as she sits at the dining table with Daisy in her lap. They eat dinner quietly and then wash the dishes together. And afterwards, like he's done so many nights before, he cradles her small hands in his and gently dries her hands for her.

"Hello, beautiful," he sighs, his fingertips tracing the shell of her ear when he tucks her long hair back.

Her face crumples and she sniffles softly as she buries her face in his chest. Their arms envelop each other, and she kisses his cheek for the longest time before she caresses his lips with a gentle sweep of her thumb and heads back to the bedroom.

He finishes cleaning up the kitchen and turns in early for the night. Lying beside her, he breathes a little easier to see her looking more relaxed and sleeping more peacefully tonight than she did the night before. He kisses her eyelids, and when she murmurs his name, he knows that they're safely back in their house, in their bed once again.

"Sweet dreams, sweetheart," he whispers to her as he affectionately rubs his nose against hers. "We're home."

\---

He wakes to an empty bed on Sunday morning, and he jumps out of bed in a panic. His heart is going haywire as he frantically searches every room of the house for her, scared out of his wits that she might truly be gone. But just when the despair is about to pull him under, the faint scent of gardenias wafts into the house on the autumn winds. He realizes that the French doors just off the dining area are slightly ajar, and when he looks outside to see Margaret sitting on the loveseat beneath the magnolia tree, the overwhelming relief he feels nearly brings him to his knees.

But his relief is short-lived.

Even from this distance, he can see Margaret's shoulders trembling as she sits alone with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He doesn't know whether that's due to the slight chill in the air that morning or because she's weeping or both. But he knows that he needs to be with her.

He grabs the yellow blanket from the living room sofa and a few logs of firewood and makes his way across the lawn to her. She startles when he drapes the blanket around her shoulders and holds her in his arms, breathing her in so deeply as he kisses her temple. He wordlessly goes about building a small fire for them and then takes a seat beside her.

"Are you okay?" he asks her in a concerned whisper.

She stares straight ahead with tears welling in her pale blue eyes, and she slowly shakes her head. "No," she just barely manages to choke out the word as a large tear slowly rolls down her cheek. "I can't stop crying, Brian. Sometimes, it really feels like I'm never going to laugh again," she says with such suffering in her unsteady voice that he feels his animosity towards Warren Langston raging through him like wildfire once again.

"I'm so sorry for triggering those painful memories for you," he says, shaking his head in disgust at himself.

"Don't be. I know that in the long run it's a good thing that all of this is finally out in the open. But for now, it just hurts so much."

"I know," he says, giving her a weak smile and using his sleeve to wipe away the tear on her cheek. He drapes his arm around her shoulders, and when she slides into his embrace and sadly places her head on his shoulder, he somehow finds the strength to keep his voice calm and steady when he tells her, "I know you won't be too keen on what I'm about to say, but maybe you should think about taking the rest of this week off from work. Knowing Alex, if you tell her you need to take some time off, that'll be all the explanation she needs. And maybe we should take a rain check on Jacob coming over tomorrow."

She buries her face in his neck, and the feeling of her shuddering breaths on his neck as she sobs in his arms breaks his heart anew. She's already so fragile from the emotional toll of the past few days, and the realization that she'd forgotten all about their Columbus Day plans with Jacob only adds to the massive amount of guilt and shame she already feels. He holds her a little tighter and soothes her with a forehead kiss.

"I know how much you're looking forward to spending the day with your grandson, and you know that I treasure every opportunity I get to spend time with both of you. But you're going through something really difficult right now, and there's no shame in putting yourself first and giving yourself a chance to heal, Margaret. You don't have to make a decision right away. Just sleep on it and see how you feel in the morning. Will you do that for me?" he asks, gently lifting her chin. "Please?"

She nods, but the way her eyes dart away when their eyes meet and the way she gingerly withdraws from his embrace tells him that there is something else that is really troubling her right now.

"Brian, there's something that I really need to ask you, but I'm . . . "

Her voice catches in her throat, and she nervously tucks her long hair behind her ear before clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. "I'm not sure if I really want to know the answer," she admits with trepidation. "I know that I don't have any right to ask you this, but I need to hear it from you or it'll just continue to eat away at me."

He's suddenly burning up with panic, and he finds himself tightly clasping his own hands together in his lap. "What is it?" he asks.

“Last month, you told me that you were in love with me. And I know that I really hurt you—and that I'm still hurting you and us—by not being able to say it back. Oh God, Brian, I'm so sorry! It's just that no one had ever said that to me before, and I've never said those words to anyone either. I mean, not in that way. I've never even come close," she says, her voice breaking as she frantically apologizes to him.

He gently shushes her and covers her hands with his. "I know. It's okay," he says with a small sigh. "What is it that you wanted to ask me?"

"Is there a reason why you haven't said those words to me again since that night? Is it because you can't forgive me? Or is it because . . . "

Her lips are pressed together so tightly as she takes a shallow, shaky breath. "Is it because you don't feel the same way about me anymore?"

He can only gape at her in shock, a deep furrow settling in his brow as his indignation causes his temperature to rise. But it quickly dawns on him that Margaret's question wasn't prompted by a lack of faith in the depth and sincerity of his feelings, but rather by a lack of faith in herself. A lifetime of being made to feel invisible had utterly obliterated her sense of self-worth to the point that she would most likely never believe that she deserves his kindness or his love. But having won his heart, the thing she now fears the most is losing it.

He feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him all over again. He's been silent for too long, and the tremble in Margaret's lips tells him that she has misinterpreted his lack of response as confirmation of her worst fear.

It's as if everything is happening in slow motion. He watches the color drain from her face, and he has never seen anything that can rival the devastation that he sees in her pale blue eyes. Her entire body seemingly deflates and crumples in defeat, as if the fight has completely gone out of her. Though she tries her damnedest to maintain her composure, it's an uphill battle and one that is swiftly lost. She turns away from him, doubling over in pain and covering her face with her hands as a heart-piercing sob rips through her.

"Margaret—"

"Get away from me! Don't you dare touch me!" she bellows at him through a torrent of tears.

She physically recoils from his touch when he places his hand on her shoulder, and that makes both his heart and his stomach lurch. He sinks to his knees before her, and when he looks into her eyes, the raging storm he sees there mirrors the storm he feels raging inside himself—anger, confusion, fear, desperation, heartbreak. But most of all, love. Love as vast and as deep as the Pacific Ocean. He struggles to hold onto her hands as she struggles to pull them away, lashing out at him like a frightened, wounded animal until he finally pulls her into a crushing embrace and nuzzles her thick hair, breathing her deep into his lungs and drawing more and more strength with each breath to tell her all the things he desperately needs for her to know.

"You're right. I don't feel the same way I did last month. Goddammit, Margaret! I love you more now than I did then!" he asserts, and he feels her go heavy in his arms, her breath escaping in a strangled sob against his neck as her arms slowly wrap around him, her hands clinging to him for dear life. "That night may have been the first time I finally said it out loud, but I swear that it wasn't the first time I felt it. And I haven't stopped feeling it. Not for a single second. But the thought of saying those words to you again and not hearing you say them back . . ."

He shakes his head and lets out a heavy sigh when he sees the guilt creep back into her eyes. "I should've been stronger. I made a promise to you that morning on the lake that I would try every day to be the man you deserve, and I'm so sorry that I haven't lived up to that. But whether or not you ever feel the same way about me, nothing can change the fact that I'm in love with you, Margaret. I'm more certain of that than I am about the sun rising in the east tomorrow. And if I'm lucky enough to be the first man you ever say those words to, I know that you'll really mean them," he says, taking her hands in his. "And maybe if I'm really lucky, I'll be the only man you ever say those words to."

"I don't deserve you, Brian. And you deserve so much better," she says in a small, broken voice.

"No," he says, slowly shaking his head. "I'm spoiled enough to always want the best. And that's you. And my God, I want you! More than anything."

"How? How can you look at me and see anything other than a damaged person? Someone you're ashamed of?" she asks in tearful disbelief. "Because I look at myself and that's all I've ever seen, even before what happened that awful night."

"Because seeing your picture last autumn was the moment that changed everything," he answers her without any hesitation. "I had a really good life before I came back to Arcadia—more than good, it was a great life—and I had everything I'd ever wanted. Because I didn't know that there was still so much more to want from life until I met you. You completely derailed everything I thought I knew. And I can't thank you enough for that. I'm head over heels in love with you, Margaret. And I am so proud of you, so proud to be yours. You're beautiful through and through, and your dad was right: you are the most perfect little pearl."

Her lips tremble and her tears splash down onto their entwined hands at the mention of her dad's term of endearment for her. "No, I'm not," she says sadly.

"I think you are," he whispers, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek.

She smiles weakly, caught somewhere in between deep despair and overwhelming joy. "I was so scared to tell you, Brian. Because I didn't want the way you look at me to change—I don't want for my entire life to be defined by those few, terrible minutes. And also because it's all my fault that things have been so tense between us lately. I didn't know whether you'd feel inclined towards sympathy for me. I mean, I didn't want you to pity me, but . . ."

She breaks down in heaving sobs, pressing her forehead against his, leaning against him for support. "I really needed you to be on my side on this one. It would have hurt too much if you weren't, and I never could have recovered from that, Brian. I just couldn't. It would have completely destroyed me."

He gathers her into his arms and hugs her like he never wants to let her go. "Oh God! I'm so sorry, sweetheart! I should be the one apologizing, because you should never have any reason to doubt that I am always on your side. And I'll always be _by_ your side. For as long as you'll have me," he promises, touching his forehead to hers. "I love you, Margaret Langston. I love you more than you could ever imagine."

He keeps repeating those three little words to her until she reaches out her hand to cup his cheek, whispering his name with an almost breathless reverence as she caresses his lips and pulls him in for a deep kiss.

"You and me?" she asks softly, an incandescent smile simultaneously brightening both her beautiful face and his.

Looking past her tears, he instantly calms when he sees something in her beautiful blue eyes that he hasn't seen there in a long time, something he was worried he might not ever see again: _hope._

"You and me," he replies, their palms meeting when he laces their fingers together and gives her an Eskimo kiss. "You and me always."

He kisses away the tears on her cheeks, and it feels like the two of them are finally able to exhale again, safe in the knowledge that they'll both sleep soundly, wrapped in each other's arms tonight.

* * *

_This heart has its longings and so it endures_  
_This heart always mine will always be yours_

     On Columbus Day, he once again wakes to a quiet house and an empty bed. But this time, there is a note from Margaret on his bedside table letting him know that she has gone into town to run a few errands before Jacob comes over at noon. He touches his lips to the lipstick kiss on her note, and he closes his eyes and smiles as he breathes in the lingering scent of her perfume on her pillow. Though he wishes that they were sleeping in on their day off and that he was holding her in his arms and kissing his way across her shoulders, it comforts him to know that she's coping and that she hasn't changed her mind about Jacob spending the day with them.

He sleeps in for another hour or so and then makes his way out to the patio deck to get the grill ready for lunch. He's just finished sweeping all the leaves from the deck when he hears the beautifully familiar sound of Margaret unlocking the front door, and when he walks into the kitchen, the change in her appearance causes him to freeze in his tracks. She still looks a little pale, although some of the sparkle has returned to her eyes. But it is the change to her hair, now several inches shorter and tapering off just at her collarbones, that takes him by surprise.

She smiles shyly as she runs a hand through her shorter hair. "I'm sorry that I didn't talk to you about it before I did it. I didn't plan it. It was just something that I really needed to do. For me."

Her gaze remains slightly downcast as he walks over to her, and he can see that familiar mix of apprehension and vulnerability in her perfect blue eyes when he places his hands on her waist and gently pulls her to him.

"Do you hate it?" she asks, her voice wavering as she chews her bottom lip.

"No, of course not. Are you kidding me? My God, you look absolutely stunning," he answers, his heart melting as he runs his fingers through her hair. "I was just thinking about the last time your hair was this length—on that freezing cold night back in January when we met up in the park. Your cheeks were all rosy and there were snowflakes in your hair and you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And you still are," he whispers, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek. "You will always be beautiful to me, Mrs. Langston."

Her cheeks color from the sincere, yet flirtatious quality in his voice. "I thought about what you said yesterday, about how it might be a good idea for me to take a few more days off before I go back to work. You were right about Alex; she didn't ask for an explanation when I told her that I needed to take this week off. I suppose the haircut and the fact that I was stopping by her place on my day off told her that something was wrong, and that was all the explanation she required," she says, placing her hands on his forearms. "I think it'll be good for me to have a few more days to myself, to just rest and maybe do some gardening. And to just be here with you."

"I'd like that," he tells her with a soft smile.

"I know that you're really busy with this hotel project in New York right now, so . . ."

Her voice trails off and she takes a step back, wrapping her arms somewhat defensively around herself. "I'll do my best not to be a burden to you and to stay out of your way."

"Oh, sweetheart, don't say things like that," he pleads, gently lifting her chin and tracing the shell of her ear with his index finger when he tucks back a lock of her hair. "I know you've been going through a really difficult time and that you're still going through it. You've been so brave and so strong, and I am so proud of you. And I know that you don't need me to take care of you, but . . . I love taking care of you. And it's not a burden at all. _You_ could never be a burden to me. Ever. Okay?"

She presses her lips together tightly and quickly nods her head. "You're wrong about one thing, though," she says, moving her hands up to his chest, her slender fingers nervously playing with the buttons on the placket of his shirt. "I do need you to take care of me. I need you for so many things. I just . . . I just need you, Brian," she tells him in a voice that's barely more than a whisper, her blue eyes welling with tears. "I really need you."

It's the closest thing to a declaration of love that she's ever given him, and he feels like he's suddenly floating on air, his heart bursting at the seams with love and affection for her.

She slides her hands around to his back, embracing him tightly, and the two of them nuzzle each other's necks, simply breathing each other in for a few moments. He feels her shiver from the feeling of his fingertips' slow progression down her spine, and they pull each other a little closer as the sparks reignite between them. She presses her lips to his heart as her fingertips press into his shoulder blades, and he can feel the warmth of her lips through his waffle-knit Henley shirt. It's as if every perfect inch of her is pressed firmly against his body when her delicate fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck and she guides his lips to hers for what he knows will be a long and intensely pleasurable kiss.

"You've got me. You've always had me," he reassures her, capturing her soft lips with his own as he lifts her lissome body onto the kitchen island.

They're still kissing each other deeply several minutes later when the sound of the Langstons' SUV pulling into the driveway interrupts their gaiety. Slightly out of breath and grinning like a couple of mischievous children, Margaret tries to wipe away the smudges of her lipstick from his cheeks and his lips, and though Brian thoroughly complicates the process by trying to steal one last kiss from her, seeing the light blush coloring her cheeks as she playfully pushes him away is well worth the effort.

He's feeling a little lightheaded and his lips are still tingling from Margaret's kisses as he combs his fingers through her slightly tousled hair. And with a grin to match the slyness in his voice, he can barely contain his laughter as he tells her, "You're gonna have to get the door, Mrs. Langston. I don't think I can walk right now."

Her eyes widen when she catches on to his joke, and when she buries her face in his shoulder to muffle the irrepressible laugh that bursts from her, his arms tightly wrap themselves around her and he can feel her entire body shaking uncontrollably. But this time, she isn't shaking out of terror as nightmares plague her sleep or out of despair as painful sobs rip her apart. She's laughing again—effortlessly and wholeheartedly—for the first time in days, and he stares at her in complete awe for the longest time as he holds her beautiful, smiling face in his hands.

"What?" she asks shyly.

He shakes his head slowly, and he can't suppress a sigh as he gazes deep into those blue eyes he loves so much. "You're laughing again. My God, how I've missed the sound of your laugh," he tells her, his thumbs caressing her perfect cheekbones.

She looks up at him with such affection in her eyes, whispering his name and lightly placing her hands on his chest as she touches her forehead to his. "I'm crazy about you, my darling," she whispers with a feather-light kiss upon his lips.

They take a deep breath together and when the doorbell rings, he scoops her off the counter and carries her in his arms for a few steps until she playfully slaps his shoulder and demands that he put her down. They walk hand in hand to the front door, and he gives her a smile as they slide their arms around each other's waists. And as soon as Brian opens the front door, Jacob is immediately in Margaret's arms.

\---

Spending the day with Jacob is a godsend, and the house feels most like a home when it's filled with the sounds of Jacob's and Margaret's laughter. Every time his gaze falls upon Margaret that day, the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her face grow a little brighter each time; it's as if he can feel her healing, slowly but surely.

They have a picnic lunch on the patio, and as thrilled as Jacob is that they're making his favorite foods, he's even more thrilled when Brian lets him help with grilling the bone-in pork chops and the apple rings for the salad. When he thanks him for being his special helper and tells him what a wonderful job he's done, if there was a way to bottle the light from Jacob's smile, it could light up the entire universe.

They bake chocolate chip cookies together after lunch and set up camp on the living room sofa and watch the MLB Division Series all day. He can't stop smiling as he watches Jacob playing with Daisy and listens with rapt attention to Jacob regaling them with stories about his friends from his fourth grade class and his Little League Baseball team. At sunset, they make their way back out to the patio deck and have a make-your-own pizza party. After dinner, Brian builds a small fire so that they can try out the s'mores kit Margaret had bought that morning. He wraps the yellow blanket around Margaret and takes a seat beside her, both of them sharing a glass of Corbières wine and showering Jacob with applause as he shows off the new gymnastics moves he's learned. He joins Jacob on the lawn and they both flip into a handstand and walk on their hands back towards Margaret. The three of them are still laughing ebulliently minutes later as they lie beside each other on the cool grass and try to catch their breath. He closes his eyes and nuzzles Margaret's soft hair, breathing her and this moment in deeply, and basks in the sounds of Margaret's and Jacob's voices as they trace the constellations together.

When he opens his eyes, the sight of his two favorite people huddled together under that yellow blanket is one of the most breathtakingly beautiful sights he's ever seen, but he also notices the quiver in Margaret's lips. Her expression grows more and more melancholy as dark feelings begin breaking through the surface of her awareness. She chews her bottom lip when she glances in his direction, but the temporary flash of shame and apology in her eyes lifts when he gives her a sympathetic smile, wordlessly communicating to her that he'll stay out here and make s'mores with Jacob if she needs to take a moment for herself.

 _Thank you, my darling_. She mouths the words as she caresses his cheek with the back of her hand. Putting on a brave face, her cheerful voice betraying none of the turmoil she's feeling, she tells Jacob that she's going to go make the biggest mug of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows just for him.

Jacob sits on his lap and asks him questions about California as they load the giant marshmallows onto the skewers. Over multiple helpings of gooey s'mores, Brian tells Jacob stories about taking his grandnieces and grandnephews to Disneyland, gorging on Dodger Dogs and watching the Friday night fireworks at Dodger Stadium, and teaching them how to surf the waves at Newport Beach.

After a few minutes, he tells Jacob he's going to go see if Margaret needs a hand with that extra large hot chocolate. He opens the patio door quietly, but he doesn't step into the kitchen right away. Instead, in a scene that will play itself out again on several more occasions, he stands in the doorway and silently watches Margaret standing at the kitchen sink as she fills the kettle, and he can just barely make out the sounds of her soft sniffles over the running water. While the worst of the storm has been weathered, its effects will always linger and catch her by surprise at the most unexpected moments. Though she'll expend a great deal of energy trying to hold back the tears, the grief will simply overpower her and bring about a brief, but intense crying jag. And when the episode has passed, leaving her emotionally exhausted, that's always when Brian's arms will encircle her waist and he'll gently nuzzle his way through her hair so that he can press his lips to her neck and breathe her deep into his lungs, his arms never letting her go and his lips never breaking contact with her skin until she whispers that she's okay.

"Every moment that I've been given with Jacob is nothing short of a miracle, but sometimes it's all just too overwhelming. I wish I'd never been married to Warren, but as lonely and as heart-rending as those years were, they brought me Jacob . . . and you," she says, her voice quavering ever so slightly as she turns in his arms. "The two of you make me so much braver and stronger than I could ever be on my own. If I woke up tomorrow and suddenly found myself back at seventeen, I could survive it again if I knew that one day you'd be here waiting for me . . . wanting me."

He doesn't know whether to weep with joy or sorrow. He gently dries her cheeks with his sleeve and whispers her name as he touches his forehead to hers. "I love you," he tells her, and he feels the physical weight of those three little words in his chest as they pour out of his heart, "more than anything, more than you could ever imagine."

He watches the way a smile tugs at her lips as she fingers the buttons of his shirt, and a tiny jolt of electricity shoots through him when she looks into his eyes with an alluring smile, curls her fingers into the placket of his Henley, and pulls him in for a kiss. He hears the creaking of a floorboard followed by Margaret's soft gasp, and his lips brush against her blushing cheek when she turns her head. He follows the path of her eyes to find Jacob peeking at them from behind the patio door with a slightly embarrassed look on his little face.

Margaret slips out of his arms and finishes making Jacob's hot chocolate while Brian grabs the mugs from the cabinet and begins grinding the coffee beans for his and Margaret's espressos. He busies himself with the espresso machine, but out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jacob giving him furtive glances as he sits on the kitchen counter, quietly sipping his hot chocolate and occasionally helping Margaret prepare the pumpkin spice mix on the stove. His sudden aloofness makes Brian feel like his every move is being scrutinized, but he does his best to appear relaxed and give Margaret a smile when she pours some of the pumpkin spice mix into his mug. They stand side by side, smiling bashfully at each other and inching a little closer as they stir their lattes. Jacob continues to look at him with an expression that he can't quite decipher, and he tries to break the ice by asking Jacob if he'd like to try some pumpkin spice mix with his hot chocolate. Jacob takes him up on his offer, but he keeps his eyes on the floor when Brian hands him back his mug.

They finish their drinks and head back to the living room, where they settle into the sofa for the last baseball game of the night, and Jacob falls asleep just minutes into the game. Watching Margaret tenderly stroking her grandson's messy brown hair, the now familiar, yet still indescribable mix of contentment tinged with both sadness and longing that he always feels whenever he looks at the two of them washes over him. He's irresistibly drawn to them, keen to be as near to them as possible. He scoots a little closer, draping his arm across the back of the sofa so that his fingertips are just barely touching Margaret's shoulder, and he can't help but smile as he watches Jacob sleeping soundly with Daisy curled up in his lap. He doesn't even realize that his hand has moved from her shoulder to her face or that his thumb is caressing her cheek until she leans into his touch and kisses his palm, gazing at him with both affection and desire in her beautiful blue eyes.

"Hello, beautiful," he whispers softly.

"Hello, handsome," she whispers back. With a smile, she slowly closes her eyes and reaches for him, and at the calming touch of her left hand slipped into his right, he instantly drifts into that wonderful space between wakefulness and sleep.

\---

He hears the Langstons' SUV pulling up to the house, and he wakes Margaret with a kiss on her hand and gives Jacob's shoulder a gentle shake. Daisy hops down from Jacob's lap and follows Margaret as she heads to the kitchen to pack up Jacob's things and the rest of the chocolate chip cookies into his backpack. Jacob lets out a long yawn and sleepily rubs his eyes, and Brian chuckles to himself as he steers the half-asleep nine-year-old boy over to the door and grabs his coat off the rack for him. He goes to unlock the front door when he feels Jacob tugging at his sleeve, and he kneels down to help him with the toggle closures on his navy duffel coat. Jacob quietly stares at his feet, but Brian notices the small frown on his face—the frown of a boy who's confused about something and trying to work out how to put what he's feeling into words.

"You can tell me anything, you know? Is there something bothering you, buddy?" he asks.

With a beautiful, childlike innocence in both his voice and his warm brown eyes, Jacob asks him, "Do you really love my grandma?"

He breathes a sigh of relief at Jacob's question, because he realizes that Jacob must have overheard him in the kitchen earlier and that the looks Jacob had been giving him towards the end of the night were not ones of anger or suspicion, but rather curiosity. Warren had died the year before Jacob was born, and Jacob had grown up never seeing his paternal grandparents together. He had observed the ways in which grown-ups who were in love with each other interacted, but he'd never seen a man interact with his grandmother in those same ways. He'd never seen a man wrap his arms around his grandmother's waist and hold her the way that Henry did with Lucille, and no man had ever sweetly whispered "I love you" to his grandmother the way his Uncle Fred used to do with his Aunt Barbara. He had never seen Margaret being loved and treasured by another person before. Until now, until Brian.

With a soft smile, Brian puts his hands on Jacob's shoulders and answers, "I do. Your grandma is the most special person in the world to me, Jacob. I know how much you love your grandma, and I want you to know that I really love her, too. And I promise you that I'll do anything and everything I can to make her as happy as she makes me. Okay?"

Jacob gives him a huge grin and a nod, and Brian gives Jacob's messy brown hair a quick tousle. He looks up to see Margaret looking at him, clearly touched by the what she'd overheard him telling Jacob. Her lips are slightly parted like she wants to say something to him, but the doorbell chooses to ring at that exact moment. He slowly rises to his feet with a sheepish grin, and Margaret gives him a quick kiss on his lips as she takes her grandson's hand and walks him to the door.

Brian hangs back in the foyer watching Margaret and Jacob saying their goodbyes, and his heart melts at the way Margaret smiles when Jacob presses a warm kiss to her cheek. Jacob begins to walk out the front door when he suddenly turns around and runs back towards Brian. Kneeling down, he catches the boy in his arms and his heart is completely taken by surprise when Jacob wraps his little arms around his neck and gives him a quick kiss good night. His eyes find Margaret's, and she's looking at the two of them with the most heartwarming expression on her face. He hugs Jacob tightly and in that moment, he experiences a sharp pang in his chest—as if he can feel a very large part of his heart leaving his body for good and being placed inside this little boy—and he knows that he would gladly suffer anything to make Jacob happy and to keep him safe.

He's still completely lost in a most pleasant state of surprise when Margaret finishes waving goodbye to Jacob, closes the front door, and begins walking back over to where he's kneeling. She stands so close that he's immersed in and immediately intoxicated by the scent of her perfume, but that makes no difference to the fact that he wants her closer still. He places his hands on her hips, his eyes closing in contentment as he nuzzles her flat stomach and her slender fingers comb through his hair.

"Come with me," she whispers sweetly.

Taking his hands in hers, she helps him to his feet and leads him through the house and out onto the patio deck. He puts his arm around her to keep her close and to keep her warm as they walk across the lawn to the fire pit.

"Did you mean what you said yesterday? When you said that you're proud to be mine?" she asks when they're standing beside the fire, placing her hands on his chest and looking up at him with a hypnotic mix of affection and hopefulness in her beautiful blue eyes. "Are you really mine?"

"Yes," he answers her, his voice as soft and gentle as the gaze in his warm brown eyes. He slides his hands around her tiny waist, lacing his fingers together at the base of her back as he bends down to touch his forehead to hers. "I'm yours, Margaret. I'm yours."

Her face melts into a glowing smile, and her fingertips press into his back when they embrace each other. "Lucky me," she murmurs, her voice half laugh, half sob as she buries her face in his chest. "Thank you, Brian. Thank you for wanting me. For being there for me when I really needed you," she whispers so softly, her lips quavering against his steadily beating heart as a single teardrop lands on his chest. "And for still wanting me."

He tilts her chin upwards, and the sight of her tears clinging to her long eyelashes leaves him feeling weaker, and yet stronger than ever all in the same breath. Her delicate fingers curl into and pull at his shirt, letting him know that she wants and needs him to touch her. Though it may still be a while before they're ready to be physically intimate with each other again, they've re-established the emotional intimacy that had slipped away from them, and he feels calmer and more connected to her than ever before. He may not be completely certain of what to do next, but he does know that his touch can provide her with the reassurance she is seeking—to know that, in his eyes, she is still desirable, that she is still very much desired. His fingertips caress her long neck, slowly and seductively. And then he kisses her with all of his might, his tongue dancing with hers as they breathe each other in, his fingertips reversing course and losing themselves in her silken hair.

"I've wanted you from the very first moment I saw you. You will always be beautiful and perfect and whole in my eyes, and nothing could ever make me stop wanting you. I'll always want you, sweetheart. Always," he vows, touching his forehead to hers as he gently wipes away the small tears at the corners of her eyes, and he loves how, even after all this time, she still blushes every time he pays her a compliment.

"You're wrong, you know, when you said that you haven't lived up to everything you promised me. Brian, you're so much more than I ever dared to hope for," she says, her fingers shyly fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt. "When I returned, I didn't want to see it as a miracle, because I couldn't bring myself to believe that I had done anything to deserve a second chance. But everything changed the first time I heard your voice. Suddenly, the world seemed a little more vibrant, a little kinder," she whispers, taking his hand and placing it over her heart. "And something inside me began to heal."

She caresses his lips so tenderly, and that little gesture still sets his heart aflutter. "You're my second chance, Brian. And I am so in love with you."

"What did you say?" he asks, unable to contain the joyful laughter that bubbles up inside him, as he holds her beautiful, glowing face in his hands.

"I love you, Brian Addison," she says. Her voice is as clear as a bell, and the sparkle in her eyes is more brilliant than the stars above them. Her happiness overwhelms her, and she raises herself onto her tiptoes to touch her forehead to his, sniffling softly when she adds, "You'll never know just how much, my darling."

"Lucky me," he tells her breathlessly. He can feel her heart beating against his chest and in time with his own, and the sound of their shared laughter echoes all around them when he gleefully lifts her into his arms and spins her around. For a few seconds, his entire world is spinning at a frenetic pace, but the moment her lips meet his in a deep kiss, time slows until it comes to a complete standstill. He closes his eyes, and a deep sense of calm washes over him because he knows that this moment was always destined for the two of them.

 _Everything comes full circle_ , he thinks. Under the stars on a cool night in April, they had shared their first kiss beside a fire, and every kiss since then has felt just as rife with that same sense of yearning and endless possibility. Even before it happened, he had known that his first kiss with Margaret would be the most perfect first kiss he would ever experience, and that it would also be the last first kiss of his life.

Now, under the stars on a cool night in October, even after the kisses he's shared with her number well into the thousands, this kiss feels brand new. Autumn has always been his favorite season, and tonight guarantees that it always will be. He has been falling in love with Margaret ever since he first laid eyes on her, and there is still so much further yet to fall. And he knows that no matter how many years pass, he'll still remember every detail of this moment with perfect clarity—the brush of Margaret's long eyelashes against his eyelids, the symphony created by the changing leaves rustling on the autumn winds and the crackling of firewood and Margaret's laughter, and how, through the pleasant sweetness of s'mores and pumpkin spice lattes, he could taste the first hint of forever in Margaret's kiss.

\---

Just after midnight, he and Margaret are lying face to face with their arms loosely slung around each other's waists, and for a split second, he can almost believe that they've found their way back to those lazy summer nights, back to when time and anything beyond the perimeter of their bed had simply ceased to exist.

They've been snuggled together under the covers—touching each other and talking softly about anything and everything—for hours now, and his heart is still skipping as happily as it did when Margaret had walked into their bathroom earlier that night, wearing one of his dress shirts. He was completely mesmerized as he watched the hypnotic movement of her bare legs as she walked towards him, and when she slid her hands along his bare chest and pulled him closer, every molecule in his body had been drawn to her like a magnet. He loves it when she wears his clothes, how the familiar fabrics can be so immediately and so fundamentally changed by her perfume and her radiating warmth. Running his fingers through her perfect hair, he could feel his breath slowly being taken away when he realized she was wearing the same shirt he'd worn on that sunny morning not even one year ago when their paths crossed for the first time. Her smile had grown so bright to see that he knew, and it was love at first sight all over again for him.

It still takes his breath away that an ordinary man such as himself is the only man who's ever discovered just what an extraordinary study in contrasts Margaret Langston is—smooth skin stretched taut across hard bone, firm breasts and soft curves, corded muscles juxtaposed with silken hair all coming together in one small, perfectly formed package. He places sweet, reverent kisses on her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the pulse point on her neck, the corners of her mouth. After each of his kisses, Margaret mimics his actions in kind, her kisses overflowing with both affection and longing as her soft lips move across his skin that he feels like his heart might burst if he doesn't kiss her soon. Her fingers slide into his hair and massage his scalp as her tongue reunites with his over and over again.

Taking her hand in his, he kisses his way from the delicate skin inside her wrist to the heated skin of her palm and intertwines his fingers with hers. Then, his nibbling kisses make their way along her jawline to her earlobe, and he whispers into her ear, "Come to Seattle with me."

She goes completely still in his arms, and her doe-like eyes are wide with surprise when she looks up at him. "What?" she asks breathlessly.

"Come to Seattle with me," he repeats. "For Thanksgiving. I always spend the holiday with my family, and it's going to be even more special this year because my niece will be getting married and christening her baby girl that weekend. Erin and Tyler asked me to be the baby's godfather, and I told them that I'd be honored. I'll be going up to Seattle next month, and I want you to be there with me," he says, clasping her hand a little tighter and taking a deep breath.

"The most extraordinary thing about my life is and always will be you, Margaret. And I want to show you where I grew up and for you to meet all the people who mean the most to me. Because they all know how crazy I am about you, and I know that they can't wait to meet you. I know it's a big step. I'm hoping that you'll say yes, but I'll understand if you're not quite ready to make that leap just yet. Or if you're hoping to spend Thanksgiving here in Arcadia with your family. There's still a little over a month between now and Thanksgiving, so you don't have to give me an answer right away. Just promise me that you'll think about it?"

"I've never been on an airplane before. I've never even seen the ocean," she says wistfully as she places her hand over his heart. "You would really make all those things happen? For me?"

She melts his heart yet again, and he gently lifts her chin so that he can look into her eyes. "I want to give you the world, Margaret. I want to hold you in my arms and kiss you until we're both breathless and tell you how much I love you—as many times as I can, in as many places as I can," he says, kissing her hand.

The touch of her hand is delicate upon his cheek, her voice cracking with emotion when she asks him, "You love me like that?"

"I love you like that," he answers without any hesitation, touching his forehead to hers. "Just say yes, sweetheart," he implores with the sweetest little kiss on her nose.

She's aglow with happiness as she kisses him—slowly and deeply, laughing effervescently against his lips the entire time. The tingling sensation in his lips is absolutely incredible, and he's still floating on air when her azure eyes gaze lovingly into his. And she says yes.

* * *

     Those momentous days in October had permanently altered the course of their relationship, and he places his hand over his heart as if doing so might relieve the heavy ache that has settled in his chest. Instead, he remembers the weight of Margaret's hand when she had placed it over his heart that night, the skin of her palm so soft and warm against his chest, the sweet kiss of her lips even softer and warmer. As sleep began to weigh heavy on their eyelids, there had been a feeling of both serenity and electricity in the air and the most incredible, overwhelming sense of possibility.

Drifting off to sleep while looking into the beautiful eyes of the beautiful woman who loves him very much, Brian could see all the breathtaking places in the world that he still has yet to visit—places he only ever wants to experience with Margaret right there by his side. All traces of turquoise were gone, and in Margaret's eyes—so blue and beautiful that they put even the Tyrrhenian Sea to shame—he could see Positano at sunset. Her goodnight kiss had transported him to the sun-drenched lemon groves of Sorrento, and he had known that he never wanted to taste another drop of Limoncello unless he was sampling it from Margaret's lips. He doesn't know how it's possible, but he could smell the winter-blooming daphnes of his childhood home thousands of miles away on the shores of Bainbridge Island on her skin.

That night was the first time that a little voice inside had whispered to him what he already knew. And it whispers the same thing to him again tonight: _She's the one_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All song lyrics © Jamie Lawson
> 
> Playlist for "Let the Ashes Fall"  
> 1\. Fill Me Up by Brian Douglas Phillips  
> 2\. Breathe by Ryan Star  
> 3\. We All Need Saving by Jon McLaughlin  
> 4\. I Won't Give Up by Jason Mraz  
> 5\. Far Away by Chantal Kreviazuk


	3. Somewhere Only We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Time and circumstance may continue to change, but he knows with every fiber of his being why he loves this extraordinary woman and why he's so desperate to hold on to her and to the relationship they've forged with all of his might: because she makes him want things he'd never wanted before. And want them desperately."

> Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope. Nothing which is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we are saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.
> 
> —Reinhold Niebuhr, _The Irony of American History_

_Sometimes it's hard to be who you know you are_  
_To find a place to start over and stay calm and find the silver lining_  
_I know you're gonna come through_  
_There is strength inside of you_  
_And yours is a beautiful heart_

     He's completely lost track of how many glasses of Speyburn he's had, but the fact that the ground seems to shift like sand beneath his feet any time he attempts to make even the tiniest movement confirms that he's had at least one too many tonight. It feels like he's underwater. Or like he's suspended in a thick fog somewhere just outside his body. His vision is slightly blurred around the edges. Even the cacophony of the party next door sounds distorted and distant, as if the cold night air has trapped everything around him in its icy grip. Closing his unfocused eyes, he shakes his head in an unsuccessful attempt to get his senses to sync together once again, but the pounding in his head only gets worse. His brain feels like it's sloshing around inside his skull, like a small boat being battered by a howling nor'easter.

Pressing his fingers into his temples, the Bill Withers song that's playing at the neighbors' party suddenly registers loud and clear. But it's the memory this particular song evokes that makes every muscle in his body ache anew. He can picture himself standing in their living room back on that crisp October night. Just him and Margaret smiling at each other across the crowded room, completely oblivious to everything except the two of them, as this song was playing on the record player. They had smiled because that lovely day was only getting better and better. And also because every stolen kiss between them that evening had tasted of chocolate cake and pink champagne. They'd been so happy then, without a single care in the world. They were in love, and they had a real chance.

But memory is a strange and sometimes deceptive thing, he thinks with a dejected sigh.

Though he'd been certain from the very beginning that he and Margaret would create many wonderful memories together, what he hadn't anticipated was how the texture of those memories would alter with time and circumstance. Or how they would one day weave together with a different synergy. Looking back from this particular vantage point, there's a melancholy undertone attached to his memories of her that he'd neither recognized nor appreciated before, but which lends a certain poignancy to them now. The memories that persist, the ones that remain the most vivid are composed of both light and dark, those unexpected and wholly overpowering moments when Margaret had broken his heart and stolen his heart in the same instant. It's like being in free fall, and yet there is something inexplicably calming about it—the way she can fill him with such yearning, but also with an inextinguishable hope and a kind of clarity that no one else ever could.

Time and circumstance may continue to change, but he knows with every fiber of his being why he loves this extraordinary woman and why he's so desperate to hold on to her and to the relationship they've forged with all of his might: because she makes him want things he'd never wanted before. And want them desperately.

And for a brief, shining moment he can truly bring himself to believe that forever is not some abstract concept when it comes to the two of them, but an inevitability . . .

His thoughts barrel through the thick fog in his head with all the speed and force of a freight train. _Some things were always meant to be. It can't be over. There's still time before the clock strikes midnight for us to rewrite this story. I have to find her._

He tries to find his footing, but the Earth careens out of control once again, and the freezing cold surface of the redwood patio deck collides suddenly and forcefully with his head.

He watches his breath slowly leaving his body and dissolving into the bitterly cold night. And then there's nothing. Only a starless void and the stillness . . .

\---

For the most part, the days he and Margaret spend at home in October follow a similar pattern. He wakes with the sunrise to the pleasant feeling of his gorgeous girlfriend sleeping soundly in his arms, and snuggling a little closer to her, her silky, fragrant hair tickles his nose when he presses a warm kiss to her cheek. Smiling contentedly, he quietly slips out of bed, placing soft kisses on her eyelids as he tucks the covers in tight all around her, and whispers in her ear, "Good morning, beautiful."

He goes out for his morning run, and when he gets back to the house, he heads straight to the kitchen where Margaret greets him with an ice-cold bottle of water from the refrigerator and a proper good morning kiss. Her soft lips smile in approval against his own as she breathes in the scents of witch hazel trees and sweat on his skin, and after exchanging flirtatious winks, he whistles a happy tune as he goes to take a quick shower while she finishes preparing breakfast.

When he'd moved into the house last year, one of the first things he did was take down all the photographs that had been displayed so prominently on the living room wall, and he'd forgotten all about them until Margaret offers to add them to the family scrapbooks. She works diligently on the scrapbooks at the dining table every morning after breakfast, and he's grateful for the interruption whenever she appears in the open doorway of his study with a fresh cup of coffee for him and a few photographs that have piqued her curiosity. He removes his reading glasses, and giving him a shy smile, she slides into his lap. His fingers play with her hair, and she listens with rapt attention as he tells her about the happy memory associated with each photograph.

The constant barrage of emails and phone calls from the New York office about the grand opening of their newest luxury hotel property keeps him occupied throughout the day, but he checks in on Margaret every chance he gets. And though he has absolutely no intention of ever asking her to quit her job at the library, he has to admit that he loves having her so close by all day. Every day feels like a Saturday when, at any given moment, he's able to look out the patio doors and see her tending to the small herb garden with Daisy right by her side. It's an absolute delight to be able to go for a mid-morning stroll through the garden with her and to walk down the hall and help her with redecorating the guest bedroom whenever he needs a break from work. He joins her in the kitchen every day at noon, sliding his arms around her slender waist and pressing a warm kiss to her blushing cheek before he helps her with preparing lunch. In the evenings, he brings her a cup of tea with a freshly picked daisy from the garden, wordlessly kissing the crown of her head so as not to disturb her as she reads her latest library book on the living room sofa, before he heads back to the study for one last round of conference calls.

Whether it's the result of being around her almost constantly that week or because he's simply paying greater attention to every detail about her, he notices how everything Margaret wears is irresistibly soft to the touch—silk pajamas, cashmere sweaters that accentuate her lissome figure, the well-worn chambray shirt she puts on after lunch when she heads out to the backyard to do a bit of gardening, the oversized Merino wool cardigan she wears in the evenings when they're relaxing in front of the fireplace with a bottle of red wine after dinner—and he certainly takes advantage of every opportunity she grants him to take her into his arms.

Initially, it's the nights that are harder to get through. During the day, she's able to keep the dark thoughts mostly at bay by keeping herself busy with small tasks around the house. But at night when the rest of the world goes quiet, the chaos in her mind sometimes echoes out of control, preventing her from falling asleep or infiltrating her dreams when she does.

One night, she awakens in a cold sweat from a harrowing nightmare, and she tries to calm herself by placing her hand on his chest and focusing on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. But it doesn't work this time. The turmoil is simply too much for her to bear, and his name comes out as a strangled sob.

His eyes snap open to find her looking at him with tear-stained cheeks, and something inside him shatters when he thinks about how long she had laid there, struggling to hold back her tears and suffering in silence as he continued to sleep. She's shaking so hard and apologizing profusely for waking him when he pulls her into his arms.

"It felt so real," she tells him in a shuddering voice, "like I was really back in that room, on that night."

Her breaths are rapid and shallow, and her hands cling to him for dear life, her hot tears soaking straight through the thin cotton of his T-shirt and her voice barely perceptible when she tells him, "I don't want for him to ever come back, Brian."

 _Neither do I_ , he thinks to himself, and he feels his jaw involuntarily tighten the way it always does at even the mere mention of Warren Langston. He hopes that Margaret's fear never comes to fruition. Not just for the sake of her well-being, but for his as well. Because he knows full well that no force on Earth would be strong enough to stop him from beating Warren to a pulp if the bastard ever crosses his path.

Taking a couple of deep, cleansing breaths, his focus is gradually redirected back to being in the moment with Margaret. He soothes her as best he can, keeping his lips pressed to her forehead and stroking her sweat-dampened hair as he whispers to her.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Everything's going to be okay. We're together now, and I'll always protect you. I promise," he reassures her with a gentle kiss as he wipes away her tears. "You're here. With me. In our house. In our bed. And you're safe. And you're loved. So very loved."

Her breathing calms the longer he holds her in his arms, and eventually she's able to fall back asleep.

But things don't get any easier, and the next day is as difficult to get through as the night that had preceded it. Something from the past has broken through the surface, and she's on edge all day. Every well-intentioned caress and look of concern from him only causes the tension to build up inside her until she finally snaps.

"Stop it, Brian! Just stop! I can't stand it! Is it any wonder that I can't relax when you're constantly hovering around me and looking at me like that? You're suffocating me! I can't breathe! I don't know how much more of this I can take!"

Her words slice straight through him, and it goes against every instinct he has to see her standing there—looking smaller than ever, her beautiful face so full of anguish as the tears stream down her cheeks—and to not pull her into his arms. But he knows that she needs time and space to work through her grief, her shame, her rage. Though he's more than willing to let her take out her misplaced anger on him if that's what she needs right now, it doesn't lessen the sting of what she'd said. Despite his best intentions, his efforts to comfort her only seem to be backfiring at the moment. He swallows the painful lump in his throat and reluctantly departs from the room, his insides crumbling to dust when she buries her face in her hands and breaks down in heaving sobs.

He confines himself to the study for the rest of the day and tries to distract himself by thoroughly rearranging the contents of his desk and staring at the television without absorbing a single word as the Bloomberg market analysts drone on for hours. In the afternoon, he brings Margaret a cup of tea and finds her curled up in the fetal position on their bed, the usually vibrant blue color of her eyes dulled with fatigue as she stares off into space in a near catatonic state. He quietly goes about gathering the used tissues off the floor and into the wastebasket, and his heart sinks when he steals a glance at her, knowing that nothing he says or does right now can stop the steady drip of her tears onto her pillow. Even worse is the moment when he goes to kiss her cheek and she turns her face away from him with a pained whimper, as if she can't stand to be touched by him and would prefer to be left alone.

It feels like a slap in the face and a hard punch to the gut, and though it breaks his heart to do so, he takes a slow, deep breath and once again gives her both time and space.

He's preparing a simple dinner of citrus-glazed salmon with quinoa and mixed vegetables at the stove when Margaret quietly walks into the kitchen later that evening. There is very little in the way of conversation as they set the table and sit down to dinner, and the silence continues to linger when they're standing beside each other at the sink and washing the dishes together afterwards. He dries his hands, and the painful tightening sensation in his chest burns out of control when, instead of holding the towel between his hands and offering to dry her hands for her, he places it on the partition between the two sink basins with a heavy sigh and begins to retreat back to the study.

But the unmistakable quiver in Margaret's lips when she gives him a furtive glance makes him stay. Of all the things in their relationship that might have to change with time, she never imagined that this small, yet significant part of their nightly routine would ever be one of them.

He reaches over and lightly caresses the soft skin inside her left wrist until she finally gathers the courage to look up at him with those sad, turquoise eyes. And something inside him melts.

He gently takes a hold of her wrists, the sweet little kiss he places on the tip of her nose letting her know that he isn't doing this out of some sense of obligation or mindless habit or simply to spare her feelings, but because it's what he genuinely wants to do in the moment. He can feel her eyes watching him the entire time, and even after her hands are dried, Margaret continues to hold onto his hands before she hesitantly brings them to her lips.

"Brian, I'm sorry," she whispers, her lips so soft and warm against his knuckles.

Giving her a sympathetic smile and a quick nod, he doesn't pressure her into saying anything more; instead, he simply tucks her hair behind her ears and he feels the tension in her body slowly dissipate when his index fingers stroke her earlobes. Taking her into his arms, he keeps his lips pressed against her forehead and holds her tight.

"It's okay, sweetheart. We're okay," he tells her, and the two of them take a deep breath and let it go together.

\---

He finishes brushing his teeth and heads to the bedroom, but Margaret isn't there.

The light in the study is on, and he finds her sitting on the sofa dressed in her blue bathrobe with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, slowly rocking herself back and forth. Taking a deep breath when he remembers the last time they'd had a painful heart-to-heart in this exact same spot, he unfolds the yellow blanket and gently drapes it around her shoulders.

"Was it all my fault? What happened that night?" she asks in a small, broken voice that causes his heart to plummet.

"No, of course not," he answers without any hesitation, kneeling down before her and taking her hands in his.

"From the beginning, it was clear that my wants and needs were never of any concern to him. Whatever enjoyment he found in our marital relations, I knew that they had nothing to do with me. He never even looked at me, always kept his eyes closed so tight. Eventually, my resentment towards him grew so deep that I stopped putting any effort into trying to be the wife he wanted. I never felt pleasure when I was with him. I mean, I knew that I _could_ feel it. But not with him. I couldn't feel anything good when I was with him. And the very notion of pretending that I enjoyed a single second of it was just so degrading that I refused to ever do so. Even though he couldn't care less about my feelings, I'm sure that it still wounded his ego and absolutely infuriated him. I think the only time he truly enjoyed himself was on that awful night. It was like he knew that he was causing me pain and that the pain would last for years. And he enjoyed it. And also because . . ."

She shakes her head resignedly, pressing her trembling lips together tightly as the tears well in her eyes. "Because he didn't have to look at my face," she says, quickly wiping away the tears on her cheeks in embarrassment. "Maybe if I hadn't been so proud, so spiteful . . . maybe if I'd just faked it every now and then . . . maybe he wouldn't have been so angry with me."

"Don't do this, Margaret. Don't justify his actions," he implores her. "I don't give a flying fuck how frustrated he was. No one has the right to do what he did."

"But I didn't say no! I didn't fight back with everything I had! I didn't do anything!" she screams, pulling her hands away. "It all happened so fast, and I just couldn't believe what was happening. And I froze! I just froze."

"That doesn't make you weak, Margaret," he states, his voice as straightforward and unemotional as she's ever heard it, as his arms gently encircle her. "And it sure as hell doesn't make it your fault."

Opening up to him and letting him see her at her most vulnerable will never be easy for her, and he loves her like crazy for even making the effort, for entrusting him with a little more of her beautiful, fragile heart. She whispers his name through her sobs and all but collapses into his open arms. The catharsis has come at long last, and it extracts every last drop of physical strength from her overwrought body.

"I want so desperately for you to be happy," he tells her, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing her back as she tries to catch her breath. "I want so much to be someone who only ever brings you joy and always says the right things to comfort you. But I can't lie to you. And believe me when I say that it tears me apart to have to tell you that there was nothing you could have done differently. It's not your fault, Margaret. There was something dark and sick and twisted about him, some fault in his wiring. I will never forgive him for what he did to you. Not just for that night, but for all of it."

A large tear slowly rolls down her cheek, and he can see the shame, the deep-seated vulnerability still swirling in her eyes when she covers her face with her hands. His heart aches for her, and he feels like he's been reduced to nothing more than windswept ashes as he combs his fingers through her soft hair. Gently taking her hands in his, he touches his forehead to hers, and he can feel both of them leaning into each other for support.

"You are not damaged goods, Margaret," he assures her, his heart clenching painfully and burning up in his chest as she begins to sob in earnest. "I would never, ever blame you for what happened," he promises. "I love you. All of you. I'm so proud of you, and I am always, always on your side."

"I'm so sorry about all the awful things I said to you earlier. I don't even know why I said it. I didn't mean it, Brian. Any of it," she apologizes almost frantically, looking up at him with tears in her guilt-ridden eyes. "You've been wonderful, as always. So patient and unfailingly kind. And I'm just . . . I'm so tired. Dear God! I'm such an awful mess right now. I'm sorry, my darling. I'm so—"

But he simply puts a finger to her lips and with a kindhearted smile he reminds her, "You and me."

Her lips tremble hard as she kisses him through the last of her tears, and he scoops her into his arms and carries her to their bedroom. He presses a warm kiss to her cheek as he lowers himself to his knees and sets her down on the bed, and their hands work together to remove her robe. Then, he gently lays her back onto the bed, and her delicate fingers curl into the short hair at the nape of his neck to keep him close for a little longer. Bowing his head, the storms inside him begin to calm when she presses her perfect lips to his forehead. He breathes her in—gardenias and jasmine, sandalwood and vanilla—and the difficulties of the day melt into nothingness.

"Sweet dreams, sweetheart," he whispers to her.

She nuzzles his nose, and her fingertips caress his cheeks and then his lips with such tenderness when she whispers back, "Good night, my darling."

Lying down behind her, their bodies settle into each other's as he wraps the plush duvet around them. She takes his hand and laces her fingers together with his as he sweeps her hair away from her neck so that he can murmur those three little words over and over against her irresistible skin as he kisses his way from her nape to her shoulder. With their hands clasped together over her heart, they drift into a deep and restorative slumber as soon as their lips meet in a soft kiss. And for tonight at least, the nightmares do not come.

\---

It's quiet when he walks through the front door, but the faint hint of clematis that fills the house lets him know that the patio doors are open and that his gorgeous girlfriend is waiting for him out in the garden. With alacrity, he grabs the bottle of Laurent-Perrier Cuvée Rosé Brut and the two champagne flutes that she'd left on the dining table for him—right beside the bouquet of lavender-colored roses and snow-white calla lilies he'd had delivered to the library this morning—and heads outside.

The sunset casts an amber glow over everything as he makes his way across the lawn to the loveseat beneath the large magnolia tree. The autumn breeze is dancing through Margaret's dark hair, and she looks casual and chic in her dark wash jeans, crisp white blouse, and long Donegal wool cardigan as she reclines on the loveseat, flipping through the latest issue of _Travel + Leisure_ with Daisy curled up in a ball at her feet.

He wolf-whistles at her to get her attention, and she rolls her eyes at him in mock annoyance, but there's no denying the light blush that colors her cheeks as she walks over to him. When she says hello by sliding her arms around his neck and pulling him into her embrace, he finds himself wishing that his hands weren't occupied at the moment so that he could run his fingers through her perfect, apricot-scented hair. But the feeling of her body firmly pressed against his when he wraps his arms around her and stands at his full height, raising her petite frame several inches off the ground, more than makes up for it.

"Everything's fine, my darling. Just like you promised it would be," she tells him, running a hand through his hair, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the relaxed smile adorning her kissable lips.

It's certainly a welcome change from where they were this morning.

_He had woken up a few minutes before the alarm clock was set to go off to find Margaret already wide awake and looking at him with a somber expression on her face. After returning her sad smile with one of his own, they had wordlessly slid into each other's arms and he'd wanted nothing more than to spend all day in bed beside her just like this, feeling the warm rush of her breaths across his chest as he kisses her hair. She had winced when the alarm clock went off and buried her face in his chest, as if doing so might somehow stop this day from ever beginning. Keeping one arm wrapped around her, he had reached over to turn off the alarm and the date had stared back at him in big, bold text._

_October 28._

_He could see it in her pale blue eyes—the deep sense of dread that will always loom over this date, the paralyzing worry that something awful might happen to Jacob today or that her medical tests will finally reveal something abnormal. Taking her hand in his, he had laced his fingers together with hers and offered to reschedule his meetings so that he could accompany her to her monthly doctor's appointment at Maggie's clinic in the afternoon. She had smiled, clearly touched by his concern, but she slowly shook her head and had only asked him for one thing._

_"Just promise me that everything's going to be okay."_

_"Everything's going to be okay. No matter what happens, just know that I'll still be right here. I'll always be here for you," he had promised her as he pressed a warm kiss to her cheek._

They've made it through the day. The sky is a fiery shade of orange as the sun sets in the west, and he's pouring out pink champagne with Margaret by his side, standing on her tiptoes as she kisses his cheek.

"Thank you for the flowers, my darling," she whispers into his ear. "They're absolutely beautiful."

"You're absolutely beautiful," he says with a flirtatious wink, and she smiles so radiantly when he gives her a playful Eskimo kiss. That lovely smile grows even brighter when he surprises her with the news that he's made arrangements to have dinner catered by her favorite restaurant this evening. He'd made a few phone calls at lunchtime to invite her family over for dinner and they'd all accepted, including Henry.

The first guest to arrive is the other guest of honor, and he knows that he won't soon forget the sight of Margaret and Jacob sniffling softly through their smiles as they hug each other tightly. The sudden, unfathomable thought of losing either one of them knocks the wind right out of him. But when Jacob runs over and joyfully leaps into his arms, the heaviness in his chest evaporates in an instant and it's as if Brian's heart has melted and fused with Margaret's. In the space of a single heartbeat, their two hearts are one and the same. He breathes Jacob into his lungs, and he begins to understand just what this perfect little boy means to his grandmother: her pride, her joy, and her hope; the unwavering embodiment of everything that is true and beautiful and good in this often unforgiving world.

Though Henry still isn't speaking to his mother, preferring to keep company mostly with Lucille, Maggie, and Marty and only briefly engaging in conversation with Brian about the recently remodeled fireplace and the new parlor piano that's been placed along the wall where the family photos used to hang, everything else about the evening—from the first toast of champagne to the last bite of cake—is nearly picture-perfect. He shows Jacob and Jenny how to operate the Audio-Technica turntable, and the children light up when he tells them that they're in charge of the music tonight.

As he looks around the room this evening, Brian can only shake his head in amused disbelief at the scene that surrounds him. At this time last year, he never could have imagined just how soon and how drastically his life was about to change. Sometimes, he still can't quite wrap his head around how it all came to be, how an ordinary guy like him could actually be sitting beside the woman of his dreams in the house that they've made their own. And yet here he is, knocking back a few beers with Fred Langston of all people and cheering the Royals to an easy victory in Game 2 of the World Series while Angela and Margaret sit between them, engrossed in conversation all evening, and with Jacob and Jenny excitedly jumping all over the four of them and filling the house with the wonderful sounds of their laughter.

And then there's Margaret. Always Margaret.

She shines so bright and takes his breath away on multiple occasions tonight. With every smile and every laugh, he falls a little bit more in love with her. Their eyes continually find each other across the crowded living room, and at one point in the evening, their eyes meet and everything else feels like it's happening in slow motion and is fading further and further into the background. The smile she gives him is an alluring one that manages to be both demure and bold in the same instant. And it holds the promise of something more—something that's meant only for him. There is a renewed sparkle to her eyes, and he wonders if maybe, just maybe, she is telling him that she's ready for them to be intimate again tonight.

At the end of the night, Margaret and Jacob pull him into their goodnight hug and he feels like he could burst from the blissful feeling of holding the two people who have completely transformed his life over the course of a single year in his arms. Jacob presses a warm kiss to his cheek and says good night with a wide grin, and Brian gives Jacob's hair—so dark and soft like his grandmother's that it causes his heart to flutter—a quick tousle. With a grin of his own, he tells Jacob, "Good night, buddy."

Once they've waved goodbye to all of their guests, Margaret leans back against the closed door with an exhausted, yet contented smile and beckons him to her with a come-hither look.

"Mrs. Langston, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?" he teases with a sly grin as he walks over to her.

He keeps his eyes locked on hers as he kneels down, and her sylphlike fingers massage his scalp as he unzips her boots and removes them for her. He slides his hands along the backs of her thighs as he rises to his feet, his hands kneading her perfect ass when he presses her up against the door and covers her body with his. Her teeth lightly nip at the smooth, flushed skin at the base of his throat, and her graceful fingers begin to slowly unbutton his dress shirt so that her hungry kisses can drift lower and lower. He untucks her blouse and slips his hands underneath, sliding them up along the path of her spine. The heat of his palms combined with the lightness of his touch elicits a soft moan from her that causes the pleasurable tingling sensation in his neck to shoot straight to his groin. His hips involuntarily buck into hers and his fingertips have just made contact with the smooth satin of her bra when Daisy begins pawing at their ankles, impatiently reminding them that she still needs to be fed.

They're both slightly out of breath as they exchange bashful smiles, and Margaret sets every inch of his body on fire again when she surprises him with a long, lingering kiss before she slips out of his arms.

\---

The sensual earthiness of oud wood and patchouli infuses the rising steam as he stands at the bathroom sink and prepares his skin for a shave later that night. Margaret walks into the room, and Brian's heart rate skyrockets when he thinks back to that balmy night in May when he'd seen her wearing this particular, enticing item of clothing for the very first time. He had wanted her desperately then, and that feeling hasn't faded in the least.

Her eyes are as dark as her navy chemise and he forgets how to breathe when she places her hands on his bare chest and raises herself onto her tiptoes, kissing her way along his jawline as her fingertips wander lower and lower on his abdomen.

"I want you," she whispers, her breath tickling his ear as her hands unwrap the towel from around his waist and let it fall to the floor. "Make love to me, Brian."

They kiss each other passionately, and she slips her hands into his to lead him to their bedroom. At the foot of the bed, he lifts her supple body into his arms, and her name comes out as a low growl when he feels the creamy skin of her thighs around his waist, the heat of her sex through the floral lace of her panties along the entire length of his arousal. He lays her down on the bed, and their hands and lips begin the slow and long-awaited re-exploration of each other's bodies. His nibbling kisses trail along her collarbones as he slips the thin straps of her chemise from her shoulders, and Margaret looks up at him with that familiar mix of apprehension and vulnerability in her eyes.

There is something she needs to hear from him first, and keeping his gaze locked on hers as he runs his fingers through her silken hair, he tells her, "You take my breath away. And I want you, too. I always want you, my love."

She caresses his lips and he uses them to shower every inch of newly exposed skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses as he slowly pulls the thin layer of satin down her body. She raises her hips off the mattress, and as soon as he's peeled off her panties, he buries his face between her thighs, causing her to gasp and her fingers to spear into his hair as he breathes her intoxicating scent deep into his lungs. Her entire body seems to hum with anticipation beneath his tongue as he slowly drags it from her navel up to her taut, sensitive nipples, and when she wraps her legs around his waist, he wants nothing more than to grab onto her hips and thrust into her with abandon.

But he knows that it's been almost a month since their last time and that Margaret needs slowness and gentleness from him tonight. He slips his hands under her and rolls onto his back, pulling her on top of him and putting her in control.

No matter how many times they make love, the experience still takes him by surprise—from the sound of Margaret softly crying out when their quivering bodies first come together to that satisfying moment when he's finally buried to the hilt inside her and everything goes quiet and still.

It feels like an eternity before she begins to move above him, the two of them looking deep into each other's eyes, completely lost in each other and breathing together as they savor the feeling of him disappearing inside her over and over again. His hands roam every inch of her beautiful, naked body, as if to chase the deep pink blush between her breasts as it spreads all across her blazing hot skin, and her languid movements gradually increase in pace until her hands are gripping his shoulders so hard that her knuckles turn white, her fingernails digging harder into his flesh as her control slips away from her. Only when she arches her back and begins chanting his name does he finally allow himself to thrust his hips upwards, matching her rhythms perfectly and sending them both over the edge for the first time that night.

_More. More. More._

It's the only thought racing through his mind, and he's still seeing white-hot sparks when he flips her onto her back. The brief look of dismay in her eyes when he quickly pulls out of her soon gives way to one of lustful exhilaration when she realizes just where his ravenous kisses are moving to next. It's the first time he's ever used his mouth on her after being inside her—after climaxing with her—and that fact only turns him on even more. His hands firmly grasp her slender hips to keep her thrashing body still as he pleasures her, his tongue darting into her relentlessly and a little deeper every time. The pitch of her moans steadily rises and when she pulls at his hair so that they're looking into each other's eyes, he parts her folds with one hand and slides his other hand up to her breast. He plunges his tongue as deep as it can go as his fingers fondle the two most sensitive areas of her body, and she wraps her legs around his shoulders as her hands fly above her head, her toes curling into his back and her fingernails clawing at the headboard as she comes apart with a scream.

They're both shaking and panting hard as he kisses his way up her sweat-glistened body to recapture her lips. His hands slide down the backs of her thighs to hold them around his waist, and as gently as possible, he slips himself back inside her pulsating heat, rolling his hips until he's repeating her name over and over—half gasp, half groan—as he drains himself to the very last drop deep inside her. All of his senses are in a heightened state and he's never felt more alive or more connected to Margaret than he does in this moment—their spent bodies intimately joined, both of them moaning softly as their tongues entwine, sharing the taste of the delicious pleasure they'd created together.

He nuzzles her neck and his exhaustion has nearly overtaken him when he feels her body tremble underneath him, followed by the dampness of her tears on his cheek. He startles awake to find her looking up at him with tears clinging to her long eyelashes.

"Are you okay? Oh God, did I hurt you?" he asks in a panic. He begins to pull away from her, horrified with himself for having possibly caused her both physical and emotional pain, when she stops him with a tender caress of her fingertips against his lips.

"I love you, Brian," she whispers, completely overcome with emotion as she wraps her arms around his neck and touches her forehead to his, sniffling softly as she adds, "So much."

He can feel the depth of emotion behind her words as they're passed from her lips to his on her warm breaths, and she melts his heart all over again.

"Lucky me," he says, causing her to half laugh, half sob as he wipes away the tears at the corners of her eyes.

"Stay with me," she whispers.

There is a pleading quality in her eyes and her voice that he's altogether powerless to resist. Her slim fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, and his hand moves to pillow her head as he gently lays her back down on the bed. His lips never cease in professing his love to her, sweetly kissing every inch of her beautiful face as he breathlessly whispers those three little words to her over and over. She keeps her arms wrapped around his neck so tightly the entire time, not wanting to let go of him for a single second. He rests his forehead against hers, closes his eyes, and time slowly grinds to a halt as he luxuriates in the feeling of Margaret's fingernails drawing lazy patterns all over his back. She kisses his forehead with a sigh when he begins to soften, and though he's more asleep than awake, his tongue instinctively seeks out the smooth skin between her breasts as his hands carefully unwrap her legs from around his waist. He pulls out of her so slowly, savoring the accelerating rise and fall of her chest beneath his lips as he draws out one last wanton moan from her. He sinks down into the bed beside her, and she nestles into the comfort and protection of his arms as he pulls the covers tight all around them.

"I love you, Margaret. My God, how I love you," he tells her, his drowsy voice thick with emotion, as he combs his fingers through her hair.

She presses a warm kiss to his heart, and looking up at him, her eyes still intensely dark with desire for him, she smiles serenely—the smile of a woman well loved. And very much in love.

He had stayed awake so that he could watch her falling asleep that night, and a deep sense of calm had washed over him like the warm, lulling waves of the Caribbean. Because he knew—he had been so certain—that their relationship, built upon a seemingly indestructible foundation of physical passion and emotional intimacy could withstand anything. That together they had truly created something that looks on tempests, and is never shaken.

* * *

_I have loved you, I have loved you for all that I'm worth_  
_I have done all I could to move heaven and earth_  
_Just to be there beside you wherever you stand_  
_For the grace of your love and the touch of your hand_

     Everything has gone eerily silent, and he can't say with any degree of certainty whether he's still alive or dead. Strangely, the idea of being caught in the in-between fills him with neither dread nor serenity. His mind and his body feel slightly disconnected from each other, but the fact that he can feel the unyielding rigidity of the redwood patio deck pressing against his spine lets him know that he hasn't lost all consciousness. He may be peering over the edge into the abyss below, but he hasn't fallen in just yet. His heart hasn't given out, and the syllables that make up her name are still contained within its every beat. There is still breath in his body.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him feels like it's shaking. For a split second, his disoriented mind very nearly fools him into believing that he is back in California in the midst of an earthquake and that the last year was nothing more than a beautifully vivid and intense fever dream. But as he slips fully back into consciousness, he realizes that it isn't a rupturing of the San Andreas Fault that he's experiencing, but rather a flurry of footsteps rapidly approaching him. And then someone's hands begin moving frantically across his chest, desperately searching for his heartbeat. Though he can’t quite open his eyes, he'd know those strong, yet delicate hands anywhere. Just as he knows the specific way in which the light changes and how the sultry, velvety notes of gardenias in her perfume cocoon him in their warmth whenever she's nearby.

"Oh my God! No! Brian! Brian, can you hear me?" she cries, her beautiful, broken voice piercing both the freezing cold night and his heart. Her hands cling tightly to the lapels of his jacket, and then he feels the dampness of the tears streaming down her cheeks when she presses her cheek to his. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean what I said earlier, Brian. I didn't mean it. Forgive me, please! Please don't leave me."

Her breath is so warm against his skin as she repeats his name over and over, her voice verging on the hysterical as she begs him to wake up. He wants so desperately to see her with his own eyes, and the nearness of her causes every inch of him to burn up with what he can only describe as yearning, every nerve ending of his body filled with this all-consuming need to reach up and tuck Margaret's long hair back behind her ears, to wipe away the tears on her cheeks as he promises her that he's okay. _And that everything else is going to be okay too._

A pair of blazing hot fingers suddenly breaks through the icy numbness encasing his body, and they press hard into the pulse point on his neck. His eyes snap open, and he grimaces as the light from Alex's penlight pierces through the fog covering his eyes. His silk pocket square is quickly removed from his suit jacket and pressed into the open wound above his left eye, sending a sharp, stinging sensation shooting through his entire body.

"It's all right, Margaret. He's going to be okay," Alex says, her deep, steady voice cutting through the sound of Margaret's gasping, relieved sobs. "It looks like he just overdid it with the Scotch tonight, but his pulse and his core temperature are both fine. Now, I need you to take a few deep breaths for me and then help me get him inside the house. Okay?"

The starry night sky is softly shimmering above him, and the hammering of his heart begins to calm when he feels Margaret gently touching his face with the back of her hand before she carefully lifts his head off the deck and cradles it in her lap. Her lovely face comes into focus, and then he's drowning in the ocean of Margaret's eyes.

She gives him a tremulous smile, her lips quivering slightly, and it causes his heart to slowly and painfully fracture. He can see the tear tracks on her cheeks so clearly in the silvery moonlight, and there's no disguising the uncertainty that he sees swirling in her eyes—the nagging fear that he might not be pleased to see her after all the unpleasantness that had transpired between them just hours ago. But if he peers deep enough into her watery, turquoise-colored eyes, past the many layers of heartache and sorrow, he can see that her innermost thoughts perfectly mirror his own: _I thought I'd lost you forever._

A lulling warmth radiates throughout his chest when she hesitantly places her hand over his heart. And when he clasps her hand in his, the softness of her skin still astonishes him anew, as always. Through his short, shallow breaths, he just barely manages to choke out the words, "Oh thank God! You didn't let go."

Her breath warms his face when she lets out a small laugh of relief at hearing his voice—filled once again with only its characteristic benevolence and none of the harshness that had marred it earlier tonight. He feels her touch her forehead to his, and his eyelids flutter closed, a tranquil smile tugging at his lips as they reverently whisper each other's names.

The ground seems to fall away. And for a few seconds, just before everything starts to go hazy again, it's as if he's floating somewhere high above the clouds. He's experienced this sensation of weightlessness before. He feels Margaret's fingertips sweep across his lips in a tender caress, and the bittersweet memories of November come rushing back . . .

\---

He sits on the wicker loveseat on the back porch on Friday afternoon and watches his grandnieces and grandnephews chattering excitedly as they chase each other and his mother's Labrador around the yard. He can't help but smile at the déjà vu of it all, and his smile only grows wider when his mother joins him and says the same thing to him that she'd said last year, just as he anticipated she would.

"There's that winning smile I love so much," she says, kissing his cheek when she takes a seat beside him. "This Thanksgiving is certainly a nice change from last year, isn't it?"

He puts his arm around her shoulders and nods as his gaze goes straight back to Margaret. This time last year, he thought he'd lost any chance of ever being with her and that he'd never see her again. He didn't think that the sight before him would ever happen. The ground is still a little damp from this morning's drizzle, although the weather is a bit warmer than usual for this time of year, and Margaret is casually dressed in blue jeans, a Fair Isle sweater, and a pair of his mother's bright yellow Hunter wellies. Her dark hair is tied in a messy ponytail, and she and his sisters-in-law are helping the children load the marshmallows onto the skewers to make s'mores.

His mother follows the path of his gaze, and with a knowing smile, she says, "Margaret is absolutely lovely, my dear boy. The little ones, especially the girls, have really taken a shine to her."

He feels a twinge of pain in his chest—something he's been experiencing with almost alarming frequency over the past couple days—as he watches Margaret sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs beside the fire pit with one of his little grandnieces in her lap. Even from this distance, he can see the sparkle in her beautiful blue eyes as she French braids the little girl's strawberry blond hair, and the dull ache in his heart only grows heavier when his grandniece thanks Margaret by pressing a warm kiss to her cheek before running off to join the other children. There's a trace of wistfulness in her smile, and he finds himself thinking back to a late-night conversation in October, when a tearful Margaret had revealed a heartbreaking secret that she would only ever share with him.

". . . and you know, the boys haven't stopped gushing about Jacob ever since you showed them that video of him hitting the game-winning home run at his baseball tournament," his mother says, interrupting his thoughts. "He's already something of a legend, practically a superhero in their minds, and they haven't stopped pestering their parents about when they'll get to go to Arcadia and meet him."

"I think they're just really excited by the idea of having another boy to hang out with. You have to admit, us boys have been getting more and more outnumbered as of late," he says with a lopsided grin.

"Well, I happen to think the abundance of girls in these last two generations is perfect. It's the least that the universe could do for me after all those years of putting up with all you boys!" she teases, giving him a playful slap on the knee. When he laughs, his mother's smile slowly melts into one of tenderness as she caresses his cheek with the back of her hand. "You look so happy, my dear. I don't think you've ever looked more handsome or more full of joy than when you're looking at her," she says, tilting her head in Margaret's direction.

"Guilty as charged and pretty damn proud of it!" he declares, while beaming with unfettered delight. "I'm having the time of my life, Mom."

"And you're in love."

"I'm in love. Very much so," he replies, his somewhat bashful laugh mixing in with a sigh. "This time last year, I'd already fallen in love with her. I just didn't know it yet. But I think you did, Mom. Right from the beginning. Is that why you smiled at me the way you did last night?"

There's a particular memory from last night that he knows he'll always be able to replay in perfect detail—an ephemeral but uniquely magical moment that had felt like the culmination of all the little moments that had led them to this exact little corner of the world. Even now, he can still smell the hot apple cider and freshly-baked Snickerdoodle cookies in the air, and their aromas settle warmly into every inch of him as he recalls the feeling of holding Margaret in his arms, her slender fingers intertwined with his as the two of them slow danced together in the middle of the study to the music of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong . . .

_Spending the Thanksgiving holiday with his family is something that he always looks forward to. This year, having Margaret there with him and creating new and lasting memories with her makes everything about their first Thanksgiving together just that much more special. Looking back, it's the quiet moments that he savors most. There's this nameless, but simple joy that accompanies getting completely lost in the moment, of feeling a contented smile form upon his lips whenever he's watching Margaret experiencing something for the very first time._

_He knows he'll never forget the way she'd reached for his hand as their early morning flight descended through the clouds on its final approach into Sea-Tac. Her dazzling blue eyes were filled with felicity and wonderment as she looked out the Boeing 737's window and took in her first views of Seattle and the Pacific Ocean, and when she turned to him, smiling so radiantly and clasping his hand a little tighter, he could feel himself falling even more in love with her. On the ferry ride across Elliot Bay to Bainbridge Island, they'd huddled together on the windy upper deck, laughing together as he pulled her inside his overcoat to keep her warm. Wrapped in his arms, she had leaned back against the solid wall of his chest, relaxing into him and kissing his cheek when he'd placed his head on her shoulder. Standing cheek to cheek, he could feel her smiling as he played the proud hometown tour guide, pointing out the various Puget Sound seabirds and the snow-capped peak of Mt. Rainier in the distance._

_After a pleasant drive through the rolling back roads, they'd arrived at his mother's house on the island's northeast coast at sunset. Walking hand in hand up the long driveway, he could feel Margaret's pace falling farther and farther behind his until she was standing frozen in place. He could hear the shakiness in her breaths and he could detect the faintest hint of dejection in her eyes as she looked at the large house standing before her and chewed her bottom lip nervously. She'd looked decades younger in that moment, and his heart had ached to remember what a big step the two of them were about to take. And also how new and overwhelming this must all be for her._

_Setting their luggage down and taking her hands in his, he'd offered her a sheepish but sympathetic smile and asked her, "Hey, you love me, right?"_

_She had looked up at him with those doe-like eyes and quickly nodded. "Yes, of course," she'd said in a small voice._

_"Well then, you've already got something—maybe the most important thing—in common with everyone waiting inside that house. They're going to love you, sweetheart. They'll love you because you love me, and they'll love you because you're important to me. And also because you happen to be absolutely wonderful," he'd assured her in his most tenderhearted voice._

_His kind words had made her smile, and he'd kissed her hands before bending down to touch his forehead to hers. Taking a deep breath together, he'd whispered to her, "We're going to have a really great time, and everything's going to be okay. I promise."_

_And he was right._

_His family had welcomed Margaret with wide open arms, all of them eager to finally meet the special woman who had stolen his heart. The little ones had latched onto her almost immediately. The boys were thrilled to learn that she had a grandson about the same age as them, and there had been no shortage of delightful questions from the girls on any number of topics, but especially about Daisy. In addition to finally meeting his newest grandniece, what had warmed his heart most was seeing Margaret engaged in easygoing, laughter-filled conversation with his mother and his sisters-in-law all night long. His mother had been her typical, cordial self, and the four of them had gotten on like a house on fire as they worked together in the kitchen, baking cookies with the little ones and putting the finishing touches on tomorrow night's Thanksgiving dinner._

_After such a momentous day, they were both so wonderfully exhausted that Margaret was out like a light as soon as her head hit the pillow. He was grinning from ear to ear as he climbed into bed that night, and there was something indescribable, yet marvelous about being back in his childhood bedroom and holding this wonderful woman in his arms. "You are a marvel, Mrs. Langston," he had whispered to her, and when he pressed a warm kiss to her cheek, his entire body had felt like it was aglow._

_Thanksgiving Day had been its usual wonderful, low-key affair, and as large as his mother's house is, this year it had felt like it was positively bursting at the seams. He had gotten up early so that he could have breakfast and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and the National Dog Show with the little ones, and the best part was having Margaret sitting by his side all day, talking and laughing with his family around the dinner table for hours over multiple helpings of turkey and his mother's famous pumpkin pie._

_After the mountains of dirty dishes were all loaded into the dishwasher, he had walked hand in hand with Margaret to his dad's study. With 'Ella and Louis Again' playing on the record player, the little ones had gathered around their great-grandmother's rocking chair, feasting away on Snickerdoodle cookies as she flipped through the old photo albums and regaled them with stories about their great-grandfather, and he and Margaret had joined the other couples on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room._

_He couldn't take his eyes off her as he held her close, their fingers lightly playing together as they slowly swayed back and forth. As a romantic song came to an end, he had dipped her and something about the sight of that long, sensual neck of hers as he slid one hand up her back and felt her lithe body arch into him had driven him a little crazy. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, and for a few seconds it had truly felt like the two of them were back in their living room on one of those sultry summer nights. He couldn't resist kissing her right then and there, and a soft gasp had escaped her lips as her hands pressed into his chest. Such a public display of affection had made her noticeably uneasy, and her cheeks began to turn bright red when the little girls started to giggle amongst themselves._

_He immediately shifted his position, effectively blocking her from view. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you, sweetheart," he whispered as he gently cupped her elbows._

_She had nodded but hadn't looked at him as she placed her trembling hands on his forearms, her breaths short and shallow. He watched her nervously chewing her bottom lip, and the burning sensation in his chest from holding his breath continued to intensify as they stood together quietly and motionless, neither of them quite knowing what the next move should be._

_But eventually, it had been Margaret who took a step forward, and as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, his arms had tentatively slid around her slender waist. After a few seconds, he'd felt her turn her face into his neck, and then he'd felt the lightest pressure of her lips against his skin. She was smiling as she kissed his neck, and as she breathed him in, he'd finally let out the breath he'd been holding in a long, slow exhale. The tightness in his chest gradually eased and when he felt her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, that's when he knew that all was forgiven. With a relaxed smile, she'd kissed his forehead, slipped her hand back into his, and put her head on his shoulder, and they'd resumed their dance as if nothing tense or awkward had ever transpired. They were simply lost in each other once again, and he had looked up to see his mother beaming at him._

"As much as I've enjoyed having you as my dance partner through the years, my dear, I have to confess that last night was exactly what I've always wanted and hoped for—to see my three boys paired off, deeply in love and loved in return. The way that Margaret can make your radiant smile even brighter is nothing short of a miracle," Rebecca says with a warm smile.

"So . . . you approve? You really like her?" he asks with a jovial, but hopeful grin.

"Of course I do, and I'm certain that your dad would have absolutely adored her," she says with the faintest hint of longing in her voice. Her words catch him off guard, and he finds himself missing his dad even more than he usually does at this time of year. "There's this selfless, nurturing quality to everything she does. It may not be immediately apparent, but it's there nonetheless. And on top of all that, she's as beautiful on the outside as she is on the inside. Those blue eyes of hers! My goodness, they really are incredible beyond description!"

"A weakness for blue eyes is definitely a trait that dad passed down to me," he deadpans before playfully winking at his blue-eyed mother.

"All of you Addison boys fall hard and you fall fast, but you always manage to fall for the most wonderful girls, and Margaret is no exception. Even if she wasn't as beautiful and wonderful as she is, the most important thing is that she loves you. And that makes her one of us," she says with her signature mixture of sweetness and seriousness as she pats his hand. "So, the answer is definitely yes. I like her, and I sincerely hope that this is only the first of many Thanksgivings that she'll spend with us."

His bashful expression gradually grows more and more pensive the longer he sits and watches Margaret interacting with his family like she was always meant to be there. Giving his mother's hand a squeeze, the words just come pouring out of him.

"It's so hard to put into words the way I feel about her. She fascinates me on a daily basis, and when she smiles at me, she makes me feel like I'm all a man can be. There's this clear dividing line to my life; everything that came before last fall almost feels like it happened to someone else. Until I met Margaret, I didn't know what it was to feel like the universe can have a really messed up sense of timing sometimes. Or like something extraordinary—something I never even knew I'd always really, really wanted—just might have passed me by. But I get a glimpse of it every time I hug Jacob goodnight. For a split second I forget that I haven't been in love with his grandmother for decades, and it just kills me.

"Growing up, I always had you and dad and Danny and Tim looking out for me. I never felt out of place or lonely, and I know now what an incredibly rare and lucky phenomenon that is. And I know that Margaret's perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but it's kind of nice, you know? To have someone to look out for, to be given the opportunity to try to be someone she can always rely on, rain or shine. I want to be that person for her."

"You are that person, Brian," his mother assures him, holding his chin so that they're looking at each other and it makes him feel like he's a little boy again. "Do you know how I know that? Because last Thanksgiving, when you were at the lowest I've seen you, you told me that you believed you and Margaret could build a great life together. It filled my heart with such joy to hear you say that, because your dad said the same thing to me when he bought this huge house for us. It's what Danny said about Vicky after her first Thanksgiving with us all those years ago. It's why Tim turned down Berkeley and followed Liz across the country to Georgetown. Just earlier this year, Tyler said the exact same thing to Erin when she told him that she was pregnant with Lily.

"You used the word "build", not "have". And that told me everything there was to know. You'd found someone and something special, and what's more, you wanted to put in the hard work, to move heaven and earth if necessary, to hold onto it. Watching the two of you together last night, it's obvious that Margaret loves you. But there's something much deeper to it. She's put so much of her faith in you. She's counting on you, Brian—to support her, to protect her, to show her kindness like she's never known. You're her guy. Don't ever lose sight of that."

He nods his head solemnly and after receiving a warm kiss on his cheek, he offers his mother his arm. And with a lively spring in their step, they make their way across the lawn, to where dozens of big bear hugs from his adorable grandnieces and several stacks of gooey, freshly assembled s'mores from his grandnephews and the sweetest smile from Margaret are all waiting for him.

\---

The dog whimpers at him before impatiently nudging at his hand with its wet nose, and Brian takes that as his cue to finish off his glass of Scotch and collect his Texas Hold'em winnings from his brothers and his nephews. Giving the dog a quick pat on the head, he says good night to everyone and follows a few paces behind the chubby Labrador, fully anticipating that Oldie will run straight to the back door. Instead, the dog leads him towards the kitchen, to where Margaret is standing quietly in the hallway.

She looks so small as she stands there all alone, leaning her head against the doorframe with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Even with her back to him, he can tell from the slope of her shoulders that there's a wistful expression on her face as she watches the beautiful little scene unfolding before her.

Erin and Tyler have just finished giving their newborn baby a bedtime bath, and the mild scent of Johnson's Head-to-Toe baby wash seems to fill the entire house. Johnny Rivers is softly playing on the radio, and in the middle of the kitchen, the soon-to-be married couple are slow dancing, swaying to the music together, both of them smiling serenely and stroking Lily's soft hair as Tyler holds his tiny, sleeping daughter against his chest. He kisses Erin's forehead and tucks a lock of her long, wavy blond hair behind her ear before taking her hand in his.

Taking a deep breath as he runs his thumb across her engagement ring, he brings her hand to his lips and he tells her, "I am genuinely happy about the baby and about the wedding. I know that you've been really worried that I might not be, but I am. I am so incredibly happy about all of it, honey. I know that I'm not always as good at showing my feelings as you need me to be, and I am genuinely sorry about that. I don't have any doubts going into tomorrow, and I don't want for you to have any doubts either. As excited as I was to get that job offer in New York, it could never hold a candle to the moment when you told me that I was going to be a dad. Or the moment when I asked you to marry me and you said yes. I love that we're staying in Seattle. I love the little house we bought. I love that Lily's going to grow up with both of our families nearby.

"And I love you, Erin Addison. More than anything. It was love at first sight for me, and I've always wanted to marry you. Even before our first kiss, I knew that you were the one—the only one—for me. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you, and I can't thank you enough for choosing me—to be your best friend, to be your husband, to be the father of your child," he says with tears in his eyes, his voice thick with emotion. "The things that really matter are right here in my arms. You and Lily are my whole world."

They're both smiling through their tears as they share a long, deep kiss, and when they touch their foreheads together, Tyler uses his sleeve to dry the tears on his fiancée's cheeks. With a glowing smile, he whispers so sweetly, "My girls. My perfect little family."

Though Brian can't see her face at the moment, he knows that there are tears in Margaret's eyes. He wonders how it had happened, how this connection had formed between him and Margaret that he can know her moods through something as subtle as a change in her breathing. How had he become so emotionally attuned to her that he can feel the depths of her pain inside his own chest?

She's so lost in her melancholy that she startles slightly and a light blush colors her cheeks when he gently places a hand on her shoulder. With a sympathetic smile, he wordlessly pulls her into his embrace and kisses her temple, feeling the weight of her grief in her heavy exhale and in the way that she sadly leans into him as they head outside.

He closes the back door quietly, and Margaret looks so small as she stands on the back porch with her eyes downcast. She's shivering, though he isn't sure whether that's due to the chill in the night air or because she's struggling to keep herself from crying. He shrugs off his gray Mariners hoodie and helps her put it on, never once tearing his gaze away from the arresting beauty of her moonlit face as he zips up the jacket for her. He grabs the thick tartan blanket from the wicker loveseat and holds out his hand to her.

Oldie runs ahead of them as they silently walk hand in hand across the large backyard towards the fire pit. After throwing a couple more logs on the fire, he takes a seat in one of the Adirondack chairs and with a shy smile, she slides into his lap. He wraps the thick blanket around her, and they sit together quietly for a few minutes, with him rubbing her back as they simply listen to the soothing sounds of the crackling firewood and savor the feeling of being in each other's arms once again.

"Your family is so overwhelming, Brian, and I mean that in the absolute best possible way. This house is like something out of a dream. It feels like a home. Do you have any idea how incredibly lucky you are?" she asks, her shaky voice barely above a whisper. "To have grown up in such a beautiful place, with so many lovely people always looking out for you? Is it really any wonder that you're such a good man?"

It's a great compliment, and he can't help but smile even as he watches her slender fingers toying with the buttons on his shirt. Chancing a glance at her, he feels the now familiar ache in his chest again when he sees the pain etched across her face. After witnessing such a beautiful moment being shared by that young, happily-in-love couple, it's understandable that she might be feeling a little downhearted as she reflects upon all the things she had so desperately wished for, but that never came to be: the handsome husband who would keep his vow to love, honor, and cherish her, the close-knit family that would always invite her to be a part of their Thanksgiving celebrations, the bedtime lullabies she would never get to sing for the daughter she would never get to hold.

He kisses her gently, and she gives him a sad smile when he tucks her hair behind her ear. "Are you thinking about your little girl?" he asks somewhat hesitantly.

She winces at that, pressing her lips together tightly as she takes a sharp, shallow breath. "I guess I'm always thinking about her. I've wanted to hold the baby so badly, but I'm too scared that I'll burst into tears if I do," she quietly admits. With a long, slow exhale, she gingerly rests her head upon his chest, her hand clutching at his shirt. "I always wanted to be a mom," she says with a sad, wistful smile. "I lost my mother when I was very young. I don't really remember much about her. But my dad must have been devoted to her. He never remarried. There were so many times when I selfishly wished that he had, because I hated being so different from all of the other kids at school. I was the only one who didn't have a mother, the only one who didn't have any siblings. That feeling of loneliness—of being all alone in the world—never truly goes away, does it?

"Growing up, I remember thinking that being part of a big family must be the most wonderful thing in the whole world. I was an only child, my dad was an only child, my mother was an only child. I told myself that even if I hadn't been born into a big family, I could always have a big family of my own one day. I held onto that hope, and for a few months when I was seventeen, it really felt like everything was going to work out the way I always dreamed it would. That the war would finally end and that I'd get to go to college. And that one day I would finally be somewhere far, far away from Arcadia, sharing my life with someone who was patient and kind and sincere and generous and thoughtful and joyful and forgiving. Someone who really cared about me. Maybe even thought that I was special. Someone who wanted to build a life with me and have children with me and grow old with me. Just . . . wanted me."

She begins to cry, and he feels the sharp sting of fresh tears in his own eyes. When Margaret cries, she really cries, and it still takes him by surprise how a body so small could produce—let alone withstand—such force. He's at a complete loss for words, and it makes him feel so powerless. The only thing he can be sure of at the moment is that Margaret desperately needs for him to hold her, so he gently gathers her into his arms, cradles her head against his chest, and kisses her hair.

"What's wrong with me? What is it that I don't have?" she sobs into his chest. "What was so lacking in me that made me so unlovable?"

"Nothing! There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You're perfect, my love. You're absolutely perfect," he insists, pressing his lips firmly against her forehead. "My God! You're always so hard on yourself," he says, fighting against the horrible tightness in his throat to keep his voice steady. Sweeping his thumbs across her flawless cheekbones to wipe away her tears, he asks, "Did it really never cross your mind that the person who was lacking in some way was Warren?"

She looks at him in utter confusion and then slowly shakes her head. He feels a million tiny pinpricks along his neck and he feels his temper rising, a violent storm of rage directed at how unfairly life has treated this incredible woman, how it has worn down her sense of self-worth to the point that she'd never once laid the blame for all those unhappy years at anyone's feet but her own.

"I don't know if Warren ever loved the boys. I mean, I know that he never loved me, but . . . I worry all the time that he never loved our sons either. And I blame myself for that, Brian," she confesses with such torment in her meek voice. "Because if their mother had been anyone else or if I'd been the wife that he wanted, maybe then he could have loved them. Maybe he would have drank less. Maybe he would have been a better businessman, a better husband, a better father. But they were mine."

"His shortcomings are not your fault, Margaret. They're not your burden to bear. It wasn't your job to redeem him."

"I just . . . I wish that I'd been able to give my sons what your parents gave you and your brothers. It's so obvious that they loved each other. That they chose each other," she says, her voice so small and yet so heavy with remorse. "The most important thing I could have done for my children was to give them the right father. I know I didn't have any say in the matter, but if I'd been free to choose, believe me, I would have chosen so differently. I feel like I really failed them. Because no matter how hard I tried—and I really did try to be a good mother and to always put them first—nothing could ever make up for the fact that I hadn't given them the best possible father. My God! How much better, how much happier would my sons' lives have been if only they'd been born to parents who loved each other?"

She's not even thinking about her own happiness right now, and it both breaks his heart and utterly enrages him in the same instant. How could she be so selfless? How could she love those two ungrateful sons of hers so deeply and put their wants and needs so decidedly ahead of her own?

"And what of your own happiness, Margaret?" he asks plaintively. "How happy you could have been if only you'd been married to a man who'd seen you for the miracle that you are?"

"I'm not a miracle, Brian," she says, her voice catching in her throat as the tears well in her eyes. "I'm—"

 _A demon_. He can tell by the way she chews her trembling lower lip that those terrible words are racing through her mind. She looks at him with a pained expression, and he knows that the belief that had been instilled in her all those years ago—that the Returned are demons capable of bringing nothing but suffering and strife—still runs so deep.

Looking back down at her hands, she shakes her head slowly and sadly, her voice so full of despair when she tells him, "I'm just not."

He sweeps her shoulder-length hair back behind her ear, his fingertips tracing the shell of her ear with the lightest touch before he gently raises her chin and feels his breath being taken away yet again when he looks into those tear-filled, turquoise-colored eyes.

"I think you are," he tells her with a soft smile. "I know that you are. I don't think you're a demon, Margaret. I never have, and I never will. I think you're an angel."

His words have completely overwhelmed her, and the tears course down her cheeks as he touches his forehead to hers. "I know that you don't always see Returning as a second chance. But I think it was. Just maybe not in the way that you think. Maybe the second chance wasn't for you; maybe it was for me. I don't think that there was anything missing from my life or that I needed to be saved in any way. But I know that you changed my life for the better, that you changed me for the better."

He takes her hand in his and takes a deep breath. "It's extraordinary beyond words that our paths ever crossed at all; it seems almost selfish to wish for even more. But there isn't a day that goes by when I don't wish like hell that I'd stayed in Arcadia last fall. Not just so that we might have had those two months together, but also because . . . everything should have gone so differently. I know that you were furious with me this time last year and you had every right to be. But I'd like to think that I might have been able to help you after Henry found out the truth about what really happened in 1935. I could have given you a place to stay, and maybe then you wouldn't have ended up at that government facility. And you wouldn't have died again . . . all alone."

His heart feels like it has suddenly leapt into his throat. "I'm so sorry, Margaret. I never should have left. I should have been there. I should have kept you safe."

"Oh, my darling—"

"I'm so sorry about that night in Branson," he blurts out, and he immediately regrets it when he sees the anguish in her widened eyes. "I shouldn't be burdening you with any of this, and I'm sorry. Margaret, I'm so sorry. But it's been eating away at me all these weeks. It haunts me to think that I could have really hurt you. My God! What if . . . what if I hadn't stopped myself in time? What if . . ."

The Earth feels like it's abruptly fallen off its axis, and he feels like he's going to be sick.

"But you did stop," she reminds him, her voice as comforting as the feeling of her delicate, trembling fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. "I didn't even have to say anything. You just knew that something was wrong, and you stopped. You didn't hurt me, Brian. And I know that you never would."

She tries to turn his face back towards her, but he continues to hang his head in shame, unable to bring himself to look into those beautiful blue eyes.

"Brian, look at me. Please, my darling, please look at me," she pleads with him.

It takes him a few deep breaths to summon his strength, but he's eventually able to accede to her request. She caresses his face with such tenderness, and the touch of her hands is so warm upon his skin that it completely drives out any traces of the piercing chill that had settled into his bones. Touching her forehead to his, she looks deep into his eyes when she tells him, "You're not like him, Brian."

The air rushes out of his lungs in a heavy exhale—half agony, half relief—as he struggles to keep himself from breaking down in racking sobs.

"Do you really think that I could love you as much as I do if you reminded me of Warren in even the tiniest way?" she asks him, her voice cracking and her eyes brimming with tears once again.

She caresses his lips, and the sound of her voice affirming her love for him calms and soothes him. Their warm tears mix together upon their cheeks as he holds her tight, his fingers entangling themselves in her hair as he breathes her in as deeply as he can, and the storms inside him begin to calm. There is still so much that he wants to say to her, but he doesn't know how to put it all into words. Those three little words could never fully articulate all the things he feels for her, and yet they still knock the wind right out of him every time they bubble up inside him.

"I love you," he whispers into her hair.

She sniffles softly, but he can feel her smiling when she presses a kiss to his cheek and the warmth of her breath radiates through him when she whispers into his ear, "I love you, too. You're my guy."

He can't help but chuckle at the old-fashioned and sweetly youthful sentiment, especially when he remembers how his mother had used that same turn of phrase earlier today. "I'm glad about that," he says, playfully nuzzling her nose with a grin, "because I absolutely love being your guy."

They stay outside a little longer, stargazing and holding each other close beneath the soft tartan blanket. Their walk back to the house is unhurried, their movements as relaxed and romantic as a waltz. His feet don't seem to touch the ground, and each time he steals a sweet kiss or two from her as they make their way across the lawn, the sound of Margaret's muffled laughter against his lips causes this inexplicable and irrepressible sense of hope to well up inside him.

Like a couple of mischievous teenagers out past their curfew, they quietly sneak inside the house, taking the back stairs straight up to the attic.

In a cozy bedroom lit only by candlelight and perfumed with the invigorating scents of balsam and cedar, she stands so close to him that he can't resist kissing the dozens of tiny freckles on her shoulders as they undress each other. They take their time changing into their pajamas, and he's just about to put on his shirt when she stops him by placing her hand on his chest. Under slightly different circumstances, they would have most likely kissed each other deeply and then proceeded to make slow, sweet love together all night long. But there is no seductive intention in her touch, and the soft smile upon her lips lets him know that she simply craves the comforting warmth of his bare skin surrounding her as she drifts off to sleep tonight—nothing more, nothing less.

He kisses her hand and leads her towards the bed, where they lie down beside each other on top of the covers. He wraps his arms and the lambswool blanket around her, and when she kisses his chest with a contented sigh, he holds her even closer, even tighter. There is no distance between them, and their bodies nestle into each other's, like two perfectly matched puzzle pieces finally locking into place.

\---

There's a cool mist rolling in from the Pacific, and Margaret is snuggled close to him in the backseat of the Escalade as they wind their way across the sleepy island, the back roads empty for miles. With her head resting on his shoulder and his senses growing blearier by the minute, the only thing he's fully aware of is the sweet scent emanating from the trio of dendrobium orchids in her hair.

It's less than half an hour's drive from the vineyard back to the house, but everyone around him has already succumbed to sleep. Danny and Vicky are slumped together and using Danny's suit jacket as a blanket, and Tim is flat asleep on his stomach and snoring away with his head in Liz's lap. Looking down at the bottle of Dom Pérignon and the expensive champagne flutes that had been hastily thrown into the large gift bag that's now sitting at his feet, Brian can't help but chuckle. Never in a million years would he have guessed that the six of them would be the ones to outlast all of the other wedding guests. Even though it had been Tim who'd shamelessly suggested that they abscond with the last of the bubbly and the vineyard's Waterford glassware, somehow it had ended up being Brian who'd found himself inexplicably juggling an armful of heavy crystal champagne flutes as they all piled into the limousine. He's not even worried about the consequences, so there's definitely no denying that he's a little drunk right now.

"What's so funny, Mr. Addison?"

Margaret's smoky voice cuts through his drunken haze, and a tiny jolt of electricity shoots through him when he realizes that she's inched even closer to him and that her fingertips are skimming across his cheeks. He loves how she hasn't been able to keep her hands off his face tonight. He hadn't shaved since before they'd left Arcadia, but after spending the entire morning with his brothers at the old-school barber shop that their dad used to frequent, he'd arrived at the church sharply dressed and with a clean-shaven face and been greeted with an approving—and borderline lascivious smile—from his gorgeous girlfriend.

He's so incredibly happy right now that it makes him feel like he's dissolved into thousands of champagne bubbles, too effervescent to be contained and ready to overflow. He can hear himself slurring his words slightly, though he really couldn't care less, as he softly rambles about how perfect every second of this day was.

The small church ceremony at sunset and the reception at the vineyard had perfectly captured the spirit of who Erin and Tyler are—both as individuals and as a couple. It had been a small wedding, shared with only family and close friends, but it was elegant in its simplicity and all of the lovely, thoughtful little details had made everything glow with a youthful, cheerful energy.

While he's always been fond of his family, all throughout the day, he had found himself falling in love with every one of them all over again. His mother had looked like she was on top of the world as she sat beside him, her eyes full of happy tears to see her youngest grandchild reciting her vows in the same seaside church where Stephen Addison and Rebecca Walsh had celebrated their nuptials more than six decades earlier. Lily had been a perfect little angel the entire day. It was as if she knew when it was her turn to be the center of attention and had smoothly sailed through her baptism ceremony like an absolute pro, only making the tiniest fuss when the cold water was poured over her head three times and the chrism was applied to her forehead. Tim and Liz had shined so brightly in their role as the parents of the bride. There wasn't a dry eye in the room during the father-daughter dance, and the doting smile never left Liz's face as she bounced her littlest grandbaby on her knee all night long. The energetic little munchkins had been at their most adorable and had insisted on pulling Big Uncle Brian onto the dance floor for what seemed like a never-ending string of up-tempo song. He's sure his lower back will make him pay dearly for giving in to their every demand, but he wouldn't have it any other way. By some miracle, he'd managed to get in a dance with the blushing bride and with his mother before the night was over.

And, of course, every time that Margaret was back in his arms had been pure bliss. With the indigo waters of the Pacific Ocean and the light of the setting sun as the backdrop, the sight of Margaret standing at the top of the church steps—waiting for him—had made his heart leap into his throat. She was a vision in that little black dress, which showed off her toned arms and legs in the most wondrous way, and he loved how her hair was styled in a sleek updo and ornamented with fresh orchids. He had made sure to compliment her flawless appearance with a teasing remark about how it wasn't fair to the groom that Brian should be the one feeling like the luckiest guy on earth on someone else's big day. Dancing with her tonight, he'd quickly given up on trying to keep track of how many times he'd held her close and felt her heart skip a beat when he whispered to her, "You look beautiful, my love."

But what had warmed his heart most was watching the newlyweds carrying Lily's car seat between them at the end of the night. There was something so sweet about how they'd wanted to spend their first night as Mr. and Mrs. Peltier in their new house with their new baby. They were laughing together as they ran out to their Jeep, with their wedding guests showering them with rice and the fireworks lighting up the sky above them. After sharing one last kiss for the cameras, they'd worked together to make sure that their little girl was safely in her car seat. Erin had never looked more beautiful than when she'd happily tossed her bouquet out the window to her best friend, waving goodbye to her parents and blowing kisses to her little nieces and nephews as Tyler drove his perfect little family home.

He's not sure if Margaret's heard a single word or if she's dozed off like the others, but the next thing he knows, their limousine is rounding the cul-de-sac in front of his mother's house.

Having eagerly slipped off their uncomfortable high heels as soon as they'd climbed into the limousine, the ladies are in no mood for walking even a single inch when they arrive back at the house. Though the gentlemen's sense of gallantry may not have been impaired, the alcohol's enhancing effect on their sense of frivolity soon comes out in full force. They must surely make for an amusing sight right now: the three Addison boys giving their barefoot partners piggyback rides and raising a ruckus like a posse of slaphappy college kids as they race each other up the long, moonlit driveway to the backyard.

Gathering around the fire pit, with each couple sharing an Adirondack chair between them, they finish off the last of the champagne, talking slowly for hours about nothing in particular and yet somehow laughing at everything. There's something magical about being awake in those hours before dawn when the rest of the world is tucked away and dreaming. Tonight, it's as if the entire world is at their feet and anything could happen before the sunrise. With Margaret in his arms, he feels like he's decades younger. He's on a high that he never wants to come down from.

Sometime well past midnight, long after Danny and Vicky have headed off to the studio apartment above the garage and Tim and Liz have departed for the pool house, he and Margaret are still entangled in each other's embrace and slow dancing together under the stars. Their roaming hands are drawn to each other like magnets, with hers stroking his smooth, flushed cheeks as he twirls a loose tendril of her lustrous, fragrant hair between his fingers. He closes his eyes in contentment, but he doesn't want to fall asleep just yet. Not before he's whispered into her ear, "I never want to stop dancing with you."

Her lips are on his and then her hands are in his hair and her tongue is in his mouth, kissing him so passionately that every inch of his body feels like it has burst into flames. She slips her hands into his, lacing their fingers together, and he gladly lets her lead him towards the house.

Once they've made the climb up the stairs and are back inside the attic bedroom, he leans back against the closed door and watches the hypnotizing sway of Margaret's hips as she walks over to the dresser. She removes her earrings before lighting the double wick candle, instantly filling the room with the scents of balsam and cedar. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and she sweeps her hair to the side with a demure smile, inviting him over. Placing his hands low on her waist, he breathes in the last, lingering traces of her perfume on her swanlike neck.

"You still take my breath away," he whispers as his lips nibble on her ear and his hands undo the tiny clasp of her necklace.

A deep blush slowly spreads across her skin, and turning around in his arms, she asks, "Can I wear your T-shirt to bed tonight?" while seductively running her hands down the length of his torso and unbuckling his belt.

"Yes, ma'am," he replies in an equally low and flirtatious voice, and the mischievous glint in her eye communicates that she understands his intentions perfectly: if she wants his T-shirt, she'll just have to undress him herself.

Normally, they would have put their clothes back on their hangers and hung them neatly in the closet. But as exhausted as they are, and knowing that they won't be needing their formal attire again anytime soon, they're perfectly happy to let their clothes remain in a haphazard pile smack dab in the middle of the floor. His arms snake around her waist to hold her body flush against his as he walks them towards the bed, his hands unzipping her dress and unhooking her bra along the way as her hands untie his silk necktie and then unbutton his dress shirt. Her dress hits the floor at the same time as his trousers, and as he lowers himself to his knees, he takes each of her beautiful little breasts into his mouth, the sweep of his tongue across her nipples causing her fingers to pull at his hair, and she has to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep herself from moaning in pleasure for the whole house to hear. Their eyes remain locked on each other's as he kisses his way down her abdomen, and she holds onto his shoulders to steady herself as he peels off her pantyhose.

When he returns to his feet, he tickles her lovely face with dozens of warm kisses as she removes his cuff links and then slides his dress shirt off his shoulders. She slips her hands under his T-shirt, and he raises his arms high above his head like an obedient little boy. Her hands work their way upwards so slowly, her touch so light he nearly bursts into laughter from how she's tickling him. She's standing on her tiptoes, but his towering height makes it impossible for her to lift his shirt any higher than his elbows. Giving her an impish smirk, he pulls his arms free, and now it's her turn to raise her arms above her head with a kittenish grin. As soon as she's dressed in his shirt—a sight that always drives him a little crazy—he bends down to kiss her, but she chuckles softly and teasingly against his lips when they brush against hers.

"Not with your entire family downstairs, my darling! Not on your life!" she says through her breathy laughter, placing her hands on his chest and playfully pushing him away. And doing a quick twirl, she disappears into the en suite bathroom to get ready for bed.

He falls backwards onto the bed, and though the throbbing in his groin is far from comfortable, he can't stop himself from smiling as he lies at the foot of the bed, staring up at the skylight as he tries to catch his breath. After a few minutes of stargazing, he's just beginning to drift off to sleep when he feels Margaret join him on the bed. He turns onto his side, his eyes still closed in contentment as his hand massages its way up her toned calves.

"Legs for days. You really do have the most gorgeous pair of gams, Mrs. Langston," he mumbles, his lips curling into a smile as he coaxes her legs apart, kisses the insides of her knees, and then slides up the bed to rendezvous with her lips. Her hair tickles his cheeks, and even through the minty freshness of her toothpaste, he can still taste champagne and wedding cake on her warm lips when she tells him that the bathroom's all his.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Margaret is already fast asleep. He places the large jar candle on the bedside table and crawls under the covers with her, and she immediately turns in his arms when he pulls her into his embrace, her limbs tangling together with his as she warmly nuzzles his neck. Running his fingers through her hair, he watches the candlelight dancing across her beautiful face as he whispers sweet nothings to her.

They both sleep like babies that night, until they're pleasantly awakened by the hazy sunlight trickling in through the skylight overhead and the sounds of Brian's energetic grandnieces and grandnephews enthusiastically helping their great-grandmother make chocolate chip and banana pancakes for Sunday brunch.

\---

That Sunday morning is the first time that Margaret comes down the stairs still dressed in her pajamas and without any makeup on her face. He can't help but smile when he recalls how it had taken the greater part of their first week living together for her to build up enough confidence to allow him to see her looking anything less than picture-perfect. Though he happens to think she looks beautiful always, she's at her most beautiful first thing in the morning, when her pale blue eyes are still misty with sleep and her thick, dark hair is still in its naturally wavy state and a little bit wild. Being able to see this particular facet of Margaret is a privilege that he's relished having all to himself, but this morning he finds that he doesn't mind sharing it with the people he loves most. The euphoria of the previous night feels like it has spilled over into today, and he loves how relaxed Margaret is and how easily she laughs whenever she's with the kids.

After the chocolate chip pancakes have all been consumed and a new mountain of dirty dishes has accumulated in the kitchen sink, the house bursts into a flurry of activity, with the kids running up and down the hallways to gather their shoes and coats while loudly voicing their excitement about going into town to see the Christmas displays in the shop windows and climbing all over the castle-like play structure at Battle Point Park and what flavors of ice cream they want to enjoy on the car ride home.

In the midst of this chaotic scene, though, he and Margaret are quietly enjoying their morning coffees in the breakfast nook. Realizing that they can seize the opportunity to make this calm, lazy Sunday morning feeling last a little longer, they eagerly volunteer to stay behind and get all the dishes loaded into the dishwasher.

They're smiling like a couple of silly lovebirds and playfully elbowing each other as they wash the dishes together, and he can only wonder if perhaps they're both still a little drunk on last night's champagne. Sharing a quiet laugh together as he dries her hands, it seems to dawn on both of them at the exact same time that the house is suddenly and completely quiet. There's only the two of them now.

He slides his hands around her slender waist and pulls her body flush against him, and her hands slide up his chest to unfasten the last button of his Henley. The way that she fixes her eyes upon him with such penetrating intensity as her index finger teasingly strokes the ticklish skin at the base of his throat makes him feel like he's invincible and also like he could dissolve into molecules right then and there. And he's thoroughly exhilarated.

He takes her hand and wordlessly follows behind her, his eyes glued to her perfect ass and his desire for her growing stronger with every step as they make their way up multiple flights of stairs to the haven of the attic bedroom. The sexual tension between them over the past few days has slowly but surely been building up to this exact time and place, and they're both giddy with laughter as they quickly undress each other. They make love sitting up in the middle of the bed—their legs around each other, his tongue licking at the smooth, sweat-slicked skin between her breasts, his hands molded to her hips, guiding her up and down as he pulls himself in and out of her. Her breathing grows more and more ragged until it's as if he can feel her entire body vibrating with pleasure beneath his hands. She grabs a fistful of his hair near the nape of his neck, and his senses feel like they've overloaded when he looks up into Margaret's dark, glassy eyes.

Haloed in the early morning light, she's a beatific vision to behold as she gives herself to him completely. An intense heat originates from somewhere deep within his core, and it rapidly ripples out into every corner of him. It's less like an explosion of fireworks and more like a melting of his body into hers, and they're placing languid, feather-light kisses on each other's necks and shoulders as they slowly come down their high together. She kisses his forehead with a sleepy, satisfied sigh, and he feels her shudder from the sensation of him softening and slipping out of her and also from the coolness in the autumn breeze that's blowing in through the open window. He grabs the lambswool blanket from the foot of the bed and wraps the two of them inside its warmth as he slowly lies back on the bed with her on top of him, their legs all tangled together as they bask in the afterglow.

"Five more minutes," he protests in a pouty voice while making an equally adorable pouty face when she tells him that they really shouldn't keep his family, especially the little ones, waiting.

He kisses her shoulder and tugs at the blanket to prevent her from slipping out of his arms. She rolls her eyes at him, but the idea of prolonging their early morning post-coital cuddle proves too tempting to pass up, and she accedes to his request, giving him a light slap on his cheek as she lays her head back down on his chest. As his fingertips lazily glide along her spine and her fingertips lazily glide across his collarbones, seemingly out of left field it dawns on him that this morning was the first time he and Margaret have had sex anywhere other than their house in Arcadia. While they'd thoroughly enjoyed each other's company throughout the entire house—mainly in the bedroom, but also on his desk in the study in the midst of what had been a heated, though ultimately inconsequential argument and on the kitchen counter during a power outage when the sex had been as fast and furious as the thunderstorm raging outside and, perhaps his personal favorite, on the patio deck with their naked bodies bathed in the light from a full moon and a seemingly infinite number of twinkling fireflies one sweltering summer night—their lovemaking had always been immanently tied to the place he's come to think of as "home". Well, until now, that is.

Try as he may, he finds that he can't suppress the laugh that's building to a crescendo inside his chest.

"What's so funny, Mr. Addison?" she mumbles against the flushed skin of his neck.

He presses his lips together tightly and shakes his head in an overly exaggerated way, playfully refusing to answer her question. But when she mimics his earlier actions by putting on an adorably pouty expression of her own, his face breaks into a wide, sly grin.

"Let's just say that I don't know why we even bothered with trying to be quiet. After all, we have the whole house to ourselves. I guess there's just something about being back in my childhood bedroom with a really hot girl that makes me feel like a horny teenager again."

She smacks him hard on the shoulder for that remark, and he tries to flip her onto her back and tickle her all over as payback, but she's too quick for him. She yanks the tartan blanket away from him, wrapping it around herself as she jumps out of bed, and he chases after her without delay, catching up to her before she can disappear inside the bathroom.

"Brian! We're already running late and I really have to take a shower!" she exclaims as he pulls her back into his arms.

"Excellent idea. Let's shower together. It'll help to cut down on the water usage," he says with a grin as he bends down and tries to kiss her neck.

"You must be out of your mind," she says with a laugh. "That shower is far too cramped even for one person, let alone two. And it certainly doesn't help the situation that you're not a normal-sized human being."

"Is that so?" he asks in a low, suggestive voice as his hands grab ahold of her hips to hold her body flush against his, effectively trapping her between his towering frame and the bathroom door. "Because I was under the impression that you rather like that I'm not normal-sized."

Her eyes widen at that and a deep crimson blush colors her cheeks when she says, "You made that more sexual than it should have been."

"Now, now, Mrs. Langston, you and I both know that I always say exactly what I mean," he quips.

With a lascivious smirk, he strips the blanket away from her and lifts her feather-light frame into his arms. They're kissing each other amorously through their giddy laughter as he carries her into the walk-in shower, where he deliberately rotates the handle to the coldest setting before turning on the water at full blast, causing her to yelp when the freezing cold water hits her shoulder blades. 

"Brian Mitchell Addison, you adjust the water temperature this exact instant!" she demands. But he pretends he can't hear her thinly veiled threats, and he can't wipe the grin off his face as he relishes the feeling of her perfectly manicured fingernails digging into his biceps and her breathy laughter on his lips.

Having thoroughly enjoyed teasing her, he carefully lowers her to the tiled floor, keeping one hand on her lower back to hold her close as he adjusts the water temperature for her. She places her hands on his chest, and he notices her expression growing more and more pensive as she nervously chews her bottom lip.

Her eyes slightly downcast, there is a faint note of apology, perhaps even of guilt, in her soft voice when she says, "We're going to be late."

"I know," he says, his voice sweet and soothing.

He knows that he's missing out on some of the valuable playtime that he'd promised his grandnieces and grandnephews. But they've always been the most exuberant and easygoing bunch and will undoubtedly still be running wild around Battle Point Park for a few more hours. He also knows that he'll be more than happy to make up for his tardiness by spoiling the little ones with an extra scoop of ice cream when everyone heads over to Mora Iced Creamery afterwards.

And there is one more thing that he knows.

He tucks her dark, wavy hair behind her ears and gently lifts her chin so that they're looking at each other when he tells her, "I also know that, right now, there's nowhere else I'd rather be than right here with you."

He feels her relax into him, and the way that she looks at him as she caresses his lips makes him feel like the two of them are slowly melting into each other again. He loses himself in her sparkling blue eyes and then he loses himself in her exhilarating kisses once again.

\---

He wakes nearly an hour before the alarm clock is set to go off. It is still pitch black outside and peering up through the skylight, his half-asleep eyes can just make out the faintest outline of the tree branches as they softly sway on the light breeze overhead.

The first half of their Thanksgiving travels will be coming to an end soon. In just a few more hours, they’ll be leaving the almost magical world of Bainbridge Island, and there's a bittersweet quality to the thought of saying goodbye to his loved ones after such a wonderful visit. But there's also an excited energy flowing through him, and he's greatly looking forward to taking his gorgeous girlfriend on a transcontinental flight to one of his favorite cities in the world.

He lets out a slow exhale, and her long eyelashes flutter against his skin as she begins to stir. "What time is it?" she murmurs against his chest.

"It's four a.m. It's early. We've still got some time. Go back to sleep," he whispers to her with a playful tap on her nose.

She gives him a sleepy smile and he cuddles her a little closer when she nuzzles and kisses his neck. Placing a soft kiss on her forehead, he drifts in and out of sleep until it's time to begin making their way downstairs.

His mother has already prepared a quick breakfast for them, and Brian is pleasantly surprised when every member of his family gradually makes their way down the stairs, sleepily shuffling into the kitchen to spend a few more minutes with him and Margaret before they have to leave for the airport. He knows that everyone's exhausted after such a jam-packed holiday weekend, and while they'll most likely head straight back to bed afterwards, it gladdens his heart to see the way his family have all come together to show how much they love and care for not only for him, but for Margaret as well.

 _How did I ever get so lucky?_ he can only wonder as he watches his adorable little grandnieces and grandnephews showering Margaret with their delighted peals of laughter and big bear hugs and warm goodbye kisses on her cheeks. He leans back against the kitchen counter, and the combination of freshly brewed Ethiopian coffee and the beautiful scene surrounding him warms his entire body from head to toe. A smile slowly spreads across his face, and when his and Margaret's eyes find each other's across the crowded room—some things never change—the unmistakable affection in her beautiful blue eyes and in her relaxed smile tells him that she's asking herself the same thing.

Their suitcases are all packed and they're just about ready to leave for the airport when Margaret slips her hand into his. Her shy smile grows more assured, and somehow, without either one of them needing to say a single word, he can hear her thoughts.

There is one last person she would really like to see before they depart for the East Coast, and he laces his fingers together with hers, wordlessly following behind her as they walk down the hallway that leads to the study. He quietly slides open the pocket doors and Margaret takes a seat in the rocking chair as he makes his way over to the crib, where his littlest grandniece is still fast asleep. He gathers the baby into his arms, clutching her tiny body against his chest and kissing her head as he rejoins Margaret. Kneeling down before her, he feels his heart melt inside his chest when he places the little girl in Margaret's arms for the very first time.

Lily sleepily opens her breathtaking cornflower blue eyes, looking right at Margaret and smiling as her little hand tightly grasps onto Margaret's pinky finger. That morning, the devastatingly beautiful sight of Margaret holding a newborn child in her arms at sunrise overwhelms him like nothing he's ever experienced before. In a dreamlike trance, he listens to Margaret cooing at the baby and sniffling softly, her eyes welling with tears even as she smiles so radiantly. He can feel the same powerful wave of emotion crashing into both of them, and a painful ache settles heavy and sweet in Brian's chest.

And it's crystal clear to him that as elated as he is, what he feels for this extraordinary woman right here, right now—this is simply the new baseline for the rest of his life. _This is only the beginning of forever_ , he realizes. At a complete loss for words, he can only wrap his arms around Margaret and the baby, holding onto the two of them as if they are his greatest treasures in the whole wide world. And in that moment, they are.

Leaning forward, he touches his forehead to hers and affectionately nuzzles her nose. "I love you, Margaret. My God, how I love you," he whispers with such tenderness against her lips.

There are tears in her eyes, but a bright smile spreads across her lips as her fingers curl into the lapel of his jacket to pull him even closer. She kisses him deeply and then they kiss Lily's downy, golden hair together, breathing in that wonderful newborn baby scent and each other.

"Good morning, sunshine," he whispers to his sleeping goddaughter as he strokes the velvety soft skin of her cheek. Then, looking into Margaret's eyes, already sparkling like sapphires in the early morning light, he runs his fingers through her silken hair, tracing the shell of her ear as he whispers to her, "Good morning, beautiful."

\---

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their hotel suite, Manhattan glitters before them and the air crackles with electricity when Margaret gives him a dazzling smile and holds out her hand. Returning her dazzling smile with one of his own, he takes her hand and lets her lead him out onto the penthouse's wraparound terrace. As she stands admiring the incredible views of the city, he slips off his suit jacket and wraps it around her, his hands taking a deliberate detour along their southbound journey from her shoulders to her waist in order to fondle her breasts, and he takes his time kissing his way up her neck. His tongue tickles the pulse point on her neck, and she softly moans his name as she leans back against his chest.

Pulling her soft earlobe between his lips and nibbling it gently, he tells her, "You know, we're the very first guests to ever stay in this penthouse suite. Seems only right that we should give it a proper christening."

Her hand slides up along the back of his neck to guide his mouth to hers, and she kisses him deeply as she turns in his arms, pressing her body firmly against his as her tongue explores every corner of his mouth. Looking him straight in the eye, her eyes like onyx and burning with unmistakable lust, she tells him, "Grab the champagne and meet me in the bedroom, Mr. Addison."

"Tsk tsk. Bossy," he teases with a quirk of his brow.

"You like it when I'm bossy," she ripostes, her voice and her gaze never once wavering in their intensity or in their seductive intent.

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, his voice just above a low, rolling growl as he pulls her back into his arms.

Their hands and their mouths are roaming all over each other as they head back inside. She slips out of his arms, and keeping her dark eyes locked on his as she walks backwards towards the bedroom, she shrugs off his jacket and nonchalantly lets it fall to the floor. Next, she slowly unbuttons her silk blouse just enough to let him catch a glimpse of the ivory lace trim of her bra. Just enough to leave him desperately wanting more.

As she struts off to the bedroom, she looks over her shoulder at him with a self-satisfied smirk on her lips, and he doesn't even try to disguise the fact that he's shamelessly leering at her perfect ass the entire way.

He's so physically aroused that, with his mind being bombarded by the most enticing visions of the night of torrid lovemaking that awaits him in the next room, it's no small feat that he's able to walk over to the wet bar and uncork the bottle of Moët Rosé Impérial without falling all over himself. He grabs the two champagne flutes and heads towards the bedroom with a huge grin on his face.

But when he gets there he finds Margaret still fully dressed and frantically pacing the room. Her hands are shaking, and she looks at him with a panicked expression in her eyes that freezes him in his tracks and causes his heart to plummet.

Suddenly, he finds it difficult to breathe. _Did I unintentionally pressure her in any way? Or worse? Is she still too traumatized by memories of what happened the last time the two of us were in a luxurious hotel suite together?_

"All my things are missing," she blurts out. "Everything in my suitcase is gone—my clothes, my jewelry, the souvenirs I bought for Jacob. Oh my God, where is all of my underwear?"

He nearly bursts into laughter, but he restrains himself. Instead, he sets down the champagne flutes and takes Margaret's hand in his to lead her towards the walk-in closet.

"I should have explained earlier that the penthouse comes with a butler service. They probably unpacked all of our things for us while we were out at dinner. Your undergarments are most likely right here in—"

His heart rate goes through the roof and he's rendered utterly speechless when he opens the dresser's top drawer and his eyes fall upon the black, all-lace chemise. She can't bring her eyes to meet his, but he can see the humiliation splashed across her pale face just before she turns away from him and walks out of the room.

As agonizing as it is for him not to go after her immediately, he knows that she needs a moment to herself. So he wills himself to stay put, to take a deep breath and count to ten before rejoining her in the bedroom. She's standing at the foot of the bed with her back to him, and his heart sinks like it's made of lead to hear her sniffling softly as she quickly wipes away her tears.

He gently places his hand on her back just between her shoulder blades and whispers her name with as much tenderness as he can muster, and after a few seconds of hesitation, she slowly turns around to face him. He places his hands on her waist, and she places her hands on his chest, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt. For a few seconds, he simply holds her close as she summons the courage to bare her soul to him yet again.

"I bought brand new lingerie last month, just before we went to Branson. We'd been drifting apart for weeks, but with it being our first weekend getaway together, I thought that maybe if I did something to make it special for you, maybe it would help to get things back on track between us. But that night didn't go the way I'd hoped it would. That ridiculously overpriced chemise has been in that little zippered compartment in my suitcase all this time. I'd completely forgotten all about it until tonight, and now I feel so pathetic because . . . "

With a heavy, almost apologetic sigh, she shakes her head and takes a seat on the bed. "I don't know what I was thinking. I've never worn anything like that before, and I'm not . . . I'm not confident like that, Brian. I never have been . . . and I'm never going to be," she says meekly.

"I know," he says gently.

"Do you wish that I was?" she asks in a strangled voice, nervously chewing her bottom lip when she gives him a furtive glance.

She's so small and so fragile right now, looking every inch the shy and heartbroken seventeen-year-old girl he'd seen in the photographs, as she looks down at her small, trembling hands and clasps them tightly in her lap. His heart breaks all over again, because he understands that what Margaret is really asking him right now is laced with deep apprehension and vulnerability: _Does our relationship leave you feeling unfulfilled in any way? Are you dissatisfied with me? Am I enough for you?_

He sinks down to his knees before her and gives her a sympathetic smile as he slowly shakes his head. "I wish that you weren't always so hard on yourself. I wish that you could see yourself through my eyes," he tells her, tucking her lustrous hair back behind her ears before taking her hands in his. "I try to tell you at least once every day that you're beautiful. Not just because it's true and because you deserve to hear it, but also because you're so overwhelming at times that I can't not say it. I'm just sorry that I don't tell you enough how incredibly sexy you are."

She blushes at that, just like he knew she would, and it melts his heart.

"You are!" he insists. "And the most amazing thing is that you have no idea just how sexy you are, and it only makes me want you even more. My God! Margaret, you're so beautiful and you're intelligent and dynamic, and there's never any doubt in my mind that you can do anything you set your mind to. I never knew that I could be constantly in awe of someone until I met you. You challenge me, and you drive me absolutely crazy—in all the best possible ways. You really do take my breath away, sweetheart. You're absolutely sublime. And I am always, always on fire for you."

When he presses a warm kiss to her blushing cheek, he can feel her take a deep breath, can feel her breathing him in. She rises to her feet and sliding her arms around his shoulders, she kisses his forehead and whispers, "Thank you, Brian. I never thought that anyone—let alone someone as perfect and as wonderful as you—could ever feel that way about me. Thank you for telling me all those things, for wanting me. It really does mean a lot to me, my darling."

"It's all true," he promises, softly kissing her thumbs when she caresses his lips.

With a shy smile, she reaches for his hands, lacing their fingers together. "Come on," she says, gently tugging at his hands to help him to his feet. "There's something we've never done together before that I'd really like for us to do tonight. And, um . . . it doesn't require any clothing at all."

"I'm intrigued," he says with a devilish grin as he bends down to capture her lips. "Tell me more, Mrs. Langston."

He loves being able to make her laugh, and he loves the feeling of her smiling against his lips whenever they're kissing each other. The coquettish glint in her beautiful blue eyes sends a jolt of electricity right through him that he can feel its sparks all the way down to his toes. Her fingernails lightly graze the stubble on his cheek as she kisses her way along his jawline to his ear, and her voice is an intoxicating mixture of affection and seduction when she whispers in his ear, "Let's take a bath together."

\---

He would have thought that a hot bedtime bath, complete with aromatherapy oils, would have had a soporific effect on him. Instead, when they're sharing one of the hotel's plush, oversized towel between them afterwards, the scents of vetiver and sandalwood radiating off her luxuriously soft hair and skin leave him feeling slightly wired.

Looking into her eyes as her hands roam all over his naked torso, it feels like there are simply too many adventures out there just waiting to be had, and he wants to soak up every single one of those magical hours with Margaret, instead of just letting them pass by.

The temperature is hovering just above the freezing mark, but with Margaret by his side, he's impervious to the cold and feels even younger than he did when he was in college. They walk around the city all night, wandering arm in arm wherever their fancy takes them, sharing a bottle of red wine in one of the dimly-lit pubs on Stone Street and then taking full advantage of the Village's 24-hour diners, where they huddle together in a cozy booth and talk for hours—about nothing and everything at the same time—over sweet potato fries and endless refills of cheap coffee.

Walking alongside Central Park as they make their way back to their hotel in the dawn's early light, Margaret wraps both of her arms around his waist and leans all of her weight into him. He has the biggest smile on his lips when he kisses her forehead, chuckling to himself to see her looking so adorable and practically sleepwalking with her head on his shoulder.

They're both running on fumes at this point, but once they're back in their suite and the Do Not Disturb sign has been hung on the door, it's as if their overtired bodies are being guided entirely by instinct. There's something wonderfully intimate about laughing softly against each other's lips the entire way to the bedroom, about craving each other's nakedness and undressing each other without feeling any pressure for things to progress to sex. He lifts her into his arms, and she wraps her long legs around him. He holds onto her thighs as he crawls into bed on his knees, her hands pulling at his hair to bring his mouth back to hers when he lays her down.

Before the city that never sleeps even wakes up, he's looking into the soul-stirring blue eyes of the most beautiful woman he's ever known, completely mesmerized by the way that the day's first light dances across her flawless skin, making her glow in a spellbinding shade of orange that can only be found in Manhattan's sunrises. Her warm, soft skin still smells absolutely incredible as he kisses his way down her lovely, swanlike neck, and he quickly falls into a deep sleep—bare skin on bare skin, with his head pillowed upon his fair love's breast.

\---

As a general rule of thumb, he purposefully tries to avoid the city's numerous tourist traps every time he visits New York. But after sleeping in until noon, he wakes to a kiss from Margaret that tastes of freshly pressed coffee with just the tiniest hint of brown sugar, and he doesn't mind the idea of braving the cold and the crowds just to spend a handful of minutes at the top of the Empire State Building, as long as he's taking in the sweeping views and sharing a kiss with Margaret. It's also the first time that he finally takes advantage of his company's VIP tickets to attend the tree lighting ceremony in Rockefeller Center. Watching her excitedly texting pictures of the huge Christmas tree to Jacob makes him grin like an idiot, and he even finds himself agreeing to explore the holiday shops and go ice skating in Bryant Park afterwards.

There are probably a million reasons why he'll still look back on this particular memory with a smile years from now. For starters, it's the first time that Margaret has ever gone ice skating and the fact that she'll be experiencing it with him makes him feel like he's reached the summit of Mount Everest. There's just something ridiculously adorable about helping this usually lionhearted woman lace up her skates and feeling her hands tightly gripping his arm as she takes her first wobbly strides.

As he gazes at her radiantly smiling face tonight, his thoughts drift back to Valentine's Day—the two of them sharing that yellow blanket for the first time and the yearning quality to her smile as she watched that one happy couple skating hand in hand. Tonight, it feels like something has come full circle.

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind blows his beanie clear off his head. He lets go of Margaret's hand and immediately takes off after it. The wind relentlessly tosses his hat in every direction, and it's not long before a few random strangers have joined the rescue effort, laughing along with him as they weave between all the other skaters in hot pursuit of the stray item. He finally manages to chase down his hat and his little troop of supporters breaks into raucous applause, cheering him on as he quickly skates back to the middle of the rink, to where Margaret is waiting for him with the most jubilant smile.

And at long last, his hands are encircling Margaret's waist, and she's laughing breathlessly against his neck as the city lights twinkle far off in the distance. He combs his fingers through her windblown hair, and the way she smiles at him makes his heart skip a beat. _How does she make everything feel brand new? Like the entire cosmos has aligned just for me?_

"My God, you're beautiful. Don't you know that?" he asks her as his fingertips brush against the soft skin of her ear. His voice is barely above a whisper, yet filled with such yearning and passion, such tenderhearted affection and unwavering devotion that the rosy hue in her cheeks intensifies.

"And are you still dazzled by me?" she asks, peering up at him with those expressive, awe-inspiring blue eyes.

There's that now familiar twinge in his chest again, and he smiles when he recalls how Margaret had looked at him in this exact same way—diffident and yet hopeful all at once—on that marvelous night back in April, when the stars had shimmered above them and the air had been sweet with the scent of magnolias. _Was there really a time when I hadn't yet discovered the sweet taste of her kisses and the rapture that they bring?_

"Always," he whispers. "More and more each day."

She locks her arms around his neck, and then she kisses him—slowly, but without inhibition that it takes him by surprise when she slips her tongue inside his mouth, seeking out and caressing his. Even with hundreds of strangers zipping about all around him, even in a city of more than eight million, everything once again goes quiet and still when he's holding this wonderful woman in his arms. It feels like entire millennia have elapsed before he opens his eyes, and when he does, the sight of her radiant, smiling face and the feeling of her fingertips tracing the outline of his lips make him feel like he's still floating somewhere high above the clouds.

"My love," she whispers, the words imbued with such profound adoration as she gazes deep into his eyes.

It's the first time she's ever called him that, and it leaves him both breathless and speechless. He never knew that his heart could hold this much joy. But as he stands there—simply an ordinary man deeply in love with an extraordinary woman—his breaths are deep and calm and steady. He breathes in the intoxicating mixture of her perfume and Norway Spruce in the frosty air, and his warm brown eyes are full of wonderment as he watches the first snowflakes of winter falling in Margaret's beautiful hair.

 _Some things were always meant to be_ , he thinks to himself with a smile.

He smiles because he knows. Because in that moment, without even needing to check and beyond a shadow of a doubt, he knows exactly what it was that his mother had slipped into his jacket pocket the previous morning.

* * *

_I may get jealous and a little insecure_  
_I may get drunk and let love bleed_  
_But it's hard to believe that beauty like yours_  
_Could fall for something like me_

     Even in the deepest depths of his reminiscences, the sultry, feminine scent of gardenias had woven itself into every detail. Without opening his eyes, some part of him had known that Margaret was right there by his side through it all. And that she's still here now.

The local anesthetic Alex had applied prior to stitching up his brow is wearing off and he's gradually regaining sensation in his face. Taking a deep breath, he slowly opens his eyes to see Margaret curled up asleep in the armchair beside the bed. She's using his coat as a blanket, her hands clutching it tightly to her chest as she breathes in the scent of his cologne on the collar, and her perfectly polished red toenails are just peeking out from beneath the fabric.

He doesn't know what pains him more: how beautiful and small and almost childlike she looks when she sleeps, or the fact that she's sleeping in the armchair, instead of beside him in their bed. The only thing he can be sure of is that he'd really screwed up tonight.

 _Did we really say all of those terrible things to each other tonight?_ he asks himself woefully. _My God, how did we end up here?_

His eyes begin to burn from the salt in his tears, but he's so relieved she hadn't let go that he can't tear his eyes away from the lovely sight of her.

"You came back."

He doesn't realize that he's said the words out loud until he's suddenly looking into Margaret's wide open eyes. But just as quickly as it had come, the relief in her eyes vanishes and it's replaced with an expression that is eerily similar to the one she had given him just before he had stormed off earlier this evening. She sits up slowly, her shallow breaths as shaky as her hands as she neatly folds his coat and drapes it over the side of the chair.

"I know that I'm the last person in the world you want to see right now," she says with such trepidation that it's plain as day that she's still too heartbroken and too frightened to look at him, and his heart slowly disintegrates to hear her struggling to keep her voice steady. "Alex said that you're going to be okay but that you really shouldn't be alone while you're recovering, so I thought maybe I'd . . . I know you'd prefer that I not be here, but it's late and it's just for tonight. I can sleep in the guest room if—"

"I don't want you to sleep in the guest room," he responds immediately.

The thought of Margaret sleeping anywhere other than their bed is so unbearable that it takes all of his strength not to wail the words. The tightness in his throat inadvertently imparts a gruff quality to his voice, causing Margaret to flinch when he reaches for her hand, and his heart hammers against his ribs as he holds his breath. After what feels like an eternity, she hesitantly takes a seat on the bed beside him.

"Do you hate me?" she asks timidly, her gaze still downcast.

"No. Of course not," he answers straight away, keeping his voice as warm and tender as possible.

But when she gives him a furtive glance, he can see that her emotions continue to rage inside her like a tempest. She's so pale, her lips nearly as drained of their vibrancy as the rest of her porcelain skin that she seems to glow with a haunting, ethereal beauty in the silvery moonlight. After a few seconds, it dawns on him that what she'd asked him was only the first part of a two-part question. She's still far too fragile to ask him her second question, for fear that his answer to that question might also be no: _Do you still love me?_

Gently, he lifts her chin and tries to turn her face to look at him. But her lips quiver uncontrollably and she can't bring her eyes to meet his. Her usually warm skin is cool to the touch, as if the fire inside her—the thing that he loves most about her—is fading fast, and he knows that it will be extinguished forever if he doesn't lay his cards on the table right now.

"I still love you, Margaret," he avows. "I know that I said some incredibly stupid and hurtful things to you tonight. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a single second. Okay?"

She nods, but her breaths still come in rapid, ragged bursts and her expression becomes progressively more haunted the longer she looks at him. "I love you, too," she says tremulously, looking back down at their interlocked hands. "I know that I don't say it as often as you'd like to hear it. I know it upsets you and hurts you that I still struggle with the words sometimes and that I've never been brave enough to say it first. But I have meant it every single time I've said it, Brian. I've never lied to you about that."

"I know," he says with a sigh. "I do know that."

"And it's not just because you remind me of him," she says, her tightly controlled anger smoldering just beneath the surface. "Ben was one of the few people in this world who was ever kind to me. He was unfailingly kind, and I saw that same sweetness and warmth and generosity in you. And it frightened me just how much I wanted you, right from the beginning. But at some point, it stopped being enough to simply fall in love with someone _like_ you. It had to be _you_ , Brian. Only you. No one else. It had to be your warm brown eyes, your kind smile, your arms holding me whenever I'm falling apart. And your voice. Because if you tell me that everything's going to be okay, I'll just believe it."

He holds her small, trembling hand a little tighter, and with a sympathetic smile, he tells her, "Everything's going to be okay."

"You're not competing with him. And you're not a consolation prize," she insists. "He was my best friend. For a really long time, he was my only friend. It eats away at me that I may never know what happened to him. He survived the war, but he didn't come home. There were so many boys who didn't make it back; those that did were never the same. What if that's what happened to Ben? What if he couldn't cope? What if he killed himself?"

He shushes her gently. "Don't think like that," he tells her. "I know how much he means to you. I'm glad that you had someone special in your life, someone you wanted to give your heart to. But there are times when knowing that just makes it really hard not to be jealous of him and possessive towards you. I'm sorry, Margaret. I shouldn't have let my insecurities get the better of me, and I never should have taken it out on you."

She gingerly withdraws her hand from his, and she struggles to hold back her tears as she nervously tucks her hair behind her ears. "You've said things in the past that were unfair, and you've said things out of anger. But until tonight, you've never been cruel."

Taking a shuddering breath, she continues, "When you asked me to move into this house with you, you told me that you wanted to come home to me. That was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me. And I really thought that I'd found something extraordinary—something I didn't even know I'd been searching for all my life until I finally found it with you: _home_. 

"It's more than just these four walls. It's the sound of you and Jacob laughing together when you're playing catch in the backyard and the way this house smells when you're making breakfast for us on Sunday morning. It's knowing that you'll always hold me in your arms and ask me if I'm okay after we've made love. So when you told me not to bother coming home tonight . . ."

She covers her mouth to keep herself from howling in agony, but it's too late. She breaks down in sobs, and his heart is breaking right alongside hers as he gathers her into his arms. She doesn't return his embrace, but she doesn't pull away from him either. His hands work in tandem to soothingly stroke her back, and it still catches him off guard how hard her entire body shakes whenever she cries.

"It was like hearing you tell me that you didn't love me anymore," she sobs, burying her face in the crook of his neck, her hot tears scalding his skin. "How could you say that to me, Brian? I don't have anywhere else to go."

Her small, broken voice carries neither anger nor accusation—she's so utterly heartbroken that there simply isn't room for any other emotions—and yet, he's never hated the sound of his own name more than he does in this moment.

"I'm sorry. My God, I'm so sorry! That was the cruelest thing I've ever said in my life, and I said it to you," he says, frowning in disgust at himself before hanging his head in shame.

"I deserved it," she says so quietly, so meekly.

"No! No, you didn't. Nobody deserves that. Least of all you."

"But I lied to you," she says, looking absolutely shattered when she looks up at him. "A future with you is the thing I want most, but . . . I just got so scared, Brian. I'm always scared. I still have a hard time believing that anything good could ever happen to me. And then when it does, I get even more scared because I could never deserve it and it's only a matter of time before the universe rights itself and rips it all away from me. I look at you, and I worry that you're going to wake up one morning and realize that you've made a huge mistake and that you don't really want to be stuck in boring, middle-of-nowhere Arcadia . . . with me. When you could be anywhere else and with someone far more deserving than me. So I lied to you and tried to push you away. And now I've ruined everything."

"I get that you're scared," he says with a steely edge to his voice. "But there is no way in hell that I'm going to let you preemptively sabotage everything we've built just because you're scared shitless. You think it doesn't scare me that I can't tell you what's going to happen tomorrow or where we'll be this time next year? I don't have all the answers, Margaret! But there are some things that I just know to be true. Like how I'm going to be in love with you for years to come. And when I think about the future, it doesn't scare me. Because I always see us—together and happy and madly in love with each other. It feels possible, as real to me as the here and now.

"I made a choice last year, and I don't regret it. So don't you dare act like you're doing something noble by pushing me away for my own good, because that is such bullshit! I am in this for the long haul. I am committed to you, and I love you. All of you. Unconditionally. I am not in conflict about it whatsoever. Goddammit, Margaret! I am giving you my whole life here, okay? Do you get that? I don't have anything bigger to give. You are everything to me and you fucking broke my heart tonight when you said that we don't have a future together. It felt like something had been stolen from me, and it physically hurt to be near you."

His anger blindsides him, and he tries to take a couple of deep breaths and swallow the excruciatingly painful lump in his throat. There's a part of him that doesn't want to let go of his anger, but in his heart of hearts, he knows that they're both just hurting so much right now. He loves this woman more that anything, and he doesn't want to add to the misery he's already caused her; he only ever wants to be a source of comfort and joy for her, and he'd utterly failed at that tonight.

He reaches out his hand to gently cup her face, and something inside him shatters when he feels her shrink away from him with a soft whimper. He knows that he has a temper and that he can be absolutely terrifying whenever he loses it. As formidable as Margaret can be at times, she always seems to cower before him, too frightened to look at him anytime he yells at her. She looks so small and more broken than ever as she tries her damnedest to maintain her composure, but he can hear her sniffling softly as large tears continue to roll down her cheeks. Any anger he might have been holding on to simply vanishes, and he aches all over as he sweeps his thumbs across her tear-dampened cheeks.

"But it hurts so much more to be apart from you. I never should've said what I did. I didn't mean what I said either, and I wish that there was some way to take it all back. But I know that I can't, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the awful things I said, and I am so, so sorry for hurting you. I always want for you to come home . . . to me.

"I'm yours forever, Margaret. I hope I'm not too late, and I hope that there's still an 'us' in you and me. Can you ever forgive me? Would you even be willing to just try?" he asks contritely, and the weight of those words crushes his heart as if they were made of lead.

"I want to," she says so quietly. "God knows that I really do, but . . ."

Her entire body seems to deflate and slowly crumple as she slowly shakes her head. "I don't know if I can," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The first surge of adrenaline hits him, and he swallows down the bitter, coppery taste at the back of his throat. Clasping her hands tightly, he frantically begs her, "Please don't go! Margaret, I'm begging you! I don't want it to be over between us. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I know that I don't deserve you. I know that I never could. But, my God, I want you! I want you so much! Falling in love with you is the best thing that's ever happened to me—the best thing that ever will. I just want to wake up to you every morning. I don't want to have to learn how to live without you. Please don't leave me! I need you, sweetheart."

 _Sweetheart_. It's the first time this evening that he's called her that, and he can tell by the way that she's looking at him that the sound of those two syllables both heals and hurts. She looks at him with such haunting anguish in her eyes as tears stream down both of their cheeks. And then she lets go of his hands and silently rises from the bed. She walks away from him, disappearing into the darkness of the walk-in closet, and his heart crashes to the floor when he hears her gathering her things.

_She's leaving._

Alarm bells start going off in his head and a chill settles deep into his bones, paralyzing him to the point that he wonders if he'll ever know what it is to feel warm again.

_This can't be happening! How could I have fucked things up so badly? Please, God! Please just let this all be a terrible dream! Please!_

He stares down at his shaking hands, dreading the sound of the cold, echoing silence that will fill this house when she leaves him.

 _It can't be over! I'll do anything! Anything!_ he repeats over and over to himself as his tears continue to fall.

It feels like his heart is burning out of control inside his chest and could explode without any warning. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to catch his breath. The seconds stretch out for what seems like an eternity, but after a few minutes, he hears her footsteps—as light and as graceful as ever—heading back towards him. He quickly wipes his eyes, and his already racing heart pounds more and more furiously as she comes to stand beside the bed, standing so close that the lingering scent of gardenias in her perfume settles in his chest with a throbbing ache. He exhales slowly and when he finally summons the courage to look up at her, the unexpected sight before him causes the air to rush out his lungs in a deep, overpowering sigh of relief.

Margaret is dressed in her pajamas. All of her jewelry has been removed, and her thick hair cascades in loose waves around her shoulders. In her hands, she's holding the flannel pajamas she'd gifted him for Christmas, which he's been wearing to bed every night for the last week. Without saying a word, she gives him a tremulous, yet optimistic smile and holds out her hand to him. And he dares to hope.

His skin makes contact with hers and his brain can hardly function with her in such close proximity, let alone process the fact that she's actually staying. In a calm, almost trance-like state, he follows close behind her and the two of them fall back into their nighttime routine with the greatest of ease. He can feel her eyes watching him with that arousing mixture of desire and affection as he strips off his clothes and changes into his pajamas, and when she hands him a glass of the electrolyte solution Alex had left for him, along with a vitamin and a couple of Advils, the brush of her fingertips against his palm causes the air to crackle with electricity.

They brush their teeth while standing close beside each other, and just like so many nights before this one, he's completely awestruck as he watches Margaret going through her nightly skincare regimen and brushing out her thick, dark hair.

Back in their bedroom, he takes a seat on the edge of their bed and watches her place the carafe and a couple more painkillers on his bedside table. He reaches for her hand, feeling as tentative as a lovesick teenager when he looks up at her. He can see from the sadness in her expression that the damage he's wrought is still too raw, leaving her feeling so unsure of herself and of what comes next. But she finds the strength to return his shy smile with one of her own, and then she takes his heart by surprise when she lightly touches his cheek with the back of her hand.

She helps him into bed, and he smiles serenely as his head sinks into the plush pillows, never once taking his eyes off her as he watches her walking over to her side of the bed. He feels himself inwardly sigh when, at long last, she finally joins him under the covers. She runs her graceful fingers through his disheveled hair, and the gentle heat that radiates from her palm feels both pleasant and pleasurable against his ear.

"You're still here," he whispers in astonishment, turning his face to nuzzle and kiss the delicate, perfumed skin inside her wrist.

Her gaze is soft, though she continues to keep him quite literally at arm's length. Neither of them says anything as they continue to lie still and silent, gazing into each other's eyes as the last minute of the year begins to tick away. He can hear the rowdy partygoers from next door making their way outside to begin the midnight countdown, and suddenly, it feels as if a deadline—an undeniable point of no return—is rapidly approaching. His heart starts racing again. He's burning up with panic, because he needs for her to know just how genuinely sorry he is for the pain he's caused her and that he loves her dearly. The force of his desperation is so colossal and so relentless he can hardly catch his breath.

"I've never been indifferent towards you. I've always felt something. I always will. I don't want to lose you, Margaret," he tells her, his voice breaking from the emotional whiplash of those declarations.

There is still so much more that he wants to say to her, but the way she touches her fingertips to his lips reassures him that she already knows what's in his heart. Without breaking eye contact, she slides over to his side of the bed and his heart skips a beat when the gentle touch of her fingertips against his lips turns into a tender caress with just seconds to spare before the clock strikes midnight. And then she kisses him.

It's a chaste kiss, but it's perfect. She slips her hands into his and holds their interlocked hands between their chests, letting him feel their two hearts beating as one as they breathe in each other's exhaled breaths. He's in a state of rapture. Kissing his beloved across two years, it's as if he can feel thousands of little golden sparks exploding between them, and her soft lips intoxicate him with the sweet, heavy taste of all her memories, her longings, her hopes.

"I forgive you."

She whispers the words so softly against his lips, and his heart swells with such overwhelming relief and joy that he fears it might truly burst inside him. "Thank you, my love," he says, his voice so thick with emotion that he needs to take a couple of deep breaths in order to compose himself. "I'll do better. I'll be better. I promise."

She sniffles softly and acknowledges his words with a quick nod, but when she looks at him, her small voice is still laden with immense sorrow when she asks him, "Can you forgive me?"

Her lower lip trembles, and her turquoise-tinged eyes continue to plead with him for an absolution. There is the slightest tremor in her hands, and he remembers how those same hands had desperately clung to him when she tearfully begged for his forgiveness earlier tonight.

He brings her hands to his lips and reverently kisses his way across her knuckles. And he says yes.

He watches the relief wash across her face, although there is still a tinge of despondency in her large, expressive eyes when she looks up at him and asks him in a timorous voice, "Will you still take me to Hawaii for Valentine's Day?"

_We're still making plans for the future. Our future. Together._

The realization makes his heart feel like it's going to jump out of his chest, and he gently holds her chin as he nuzzles and then kisses her nose. "Of course I will," he whispers to her.

An affectionate smile brightens her lovely face as she touches her forehead to his. "You and me?" she asks him.

"You and me," he answers straight away, his smile and his voice overflowing with tenderness. "You and me always."

She kisses him and guides his arms around her as she nestles into his awaiting embrace. He loves being tangled together with her like this, with her body atop his, her ear pressed to his chest, listening to the sounds of his heart beating, her index finger languidly stroking the warm skin at the base of his throat as his hands lightly run up and down the length of her spine.

"I love you, Brian. You're my guy," she states matter-of-factly, her fingers curling into the soft flannel of his shirt as she presses her lips firmly to his chest, and there is no trace of tension anywhere in her body.

 _She loves me_. He repeats that fact to himself over and over with a smile. She had told him so, without any hesitation and without any expectations. There was a time when her fear that he might not love her in return would have been insurmountable and would have held her back from giving voice to her feelings. But now, though his silence would still cause her immense pain, it won't destroy her. And it won't change the way she feels about him.

He's floating on cloud nine as he watches the fireworks splashing their ever-changing colors across the flawless skin of her face as she drifts off to sleep. Even though the fireworks are exploding all over town right now, the only thing he can hear is the sound of Margaret's breaths growing slower and deeper. He holds her even tighter, until his body completely envelops hers, every molecule within him seemingly drawn to her on some instinctive, chemical level that he can no longer tell where he ends and where she begins. With his lips firmly pressed against her forehead and her soft, sweet-smelling hair tickling his nose, a wave of calmness washes over him as he sleepily murmurs to her, "Sweet dreams, sweetheart. I love you like crazy."

His eyelids grow heavy with sleep, and the last thing he can remember from tonight is the feeling of her lips on his skin when she kisses his neck just below his Adam's apple. Her feather-light frame goes heavy in his arms and seemingly melts into his, and the velvety notes of gardenia in her perfume fill his lungs as he floats into a blissful sleep.

* * *

_I've done all the maths_  
_And it all adds up to us_  
_It's you and me_

     The dawn is breaking, the first rays of sunlight trickling in through the bedroom windows as he wearily blinks the sleep out of his unfocused eyes. Every inch of his body aches deep down into his bones, but the familiar feeling of Margaret sleeping peacefully in his arms helps to ease the pounding in his head.

She stirs but doesn't wake when he softly kisses her hair, and he slips out of bed as quietly as possible. He grabs the two ibuprofens and the large glass of water from the bedside table and gulps them down as he slowly makes his way to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and splashes some cold water on his face, careful not to get the fresh stitches traversing his left eyebrow wet. Running his achy hands over the grizzled stubble on his cheeks and his neck, he reluctantly accepts that shaving will simply have to be put off until at least tomorrow morning.

Back in their bedroom, he pulls on a pair of heavyweight Merino wool socks and his Stanford sweatshirt and takes a seat in the armchair. There's a restlessness within him, an urgent desire to engage in some form of activity after so many hours of lying still. But for the next minute or so, he simply takes in one deep breath after another and watches Margaret, now curled up on his side of the bed and hugging his pillow to her chest as she continues to sleep.

Kneeling down beside her, he quietly opens the drawer of his bedside table. He combs his fingers through her dark hair, and as he presses a warm kiss to her cheek, he slides the small velvet box underneath her hand.

\---

He cleans off the patio deck and takes a seat at the top of the steps. Daisy is curled up in a tight little ball right beside him and purring contentedly, and the sunrise is just barely peeking over the horizon, splashing its prism of warm colors onto the small clouds overhead. He breathes in the frosty morning air, his muscles so relaxed that he could almost drift back into a deep sleep when he hears the patio door open.

The bold aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the subtlest hint of gardenia gradually seep into his consciousness. He opens his eyes to see Margaret sitting beside him, wrapped in that yellow blanket and looking at him like she's committing every detail of his face to memory. There's a glimmer of cobalt blue in her eyes this morning that he's never seen in them before, and he breathes a sigh of relief to know that he's wide awake and isn't simply dreaming. He hadn't given up, and she hadn't let go. And last night, they'd found their way back—to their house, to their bed, and to each other.

Wordlessly, she puts her head on his shoulder. There is the slightest hesitation in her touch when she slips her hand into his, and he can feel her holding her breath during the split-second that elapses before he laces his fingers together with hers.

"Good morning, beautiful," he whispers with a tender smile.

She nervously chews her bottom lip and she's still a little pale when looks up at him with those doe-like blue eyes. Cupping her cheek, he can see that she's still hurting, but also hopeful. His thumb catches the small tear at the corner of her eye before it can fall, and he begins to apologize again for the cruel words he'd said to her last night.

"I am so sorry, my love—"

But she puts a finger to his lips with a gentle shush and kisses him. It's a kiss that feels very similar to the one they'd shared at the stroke of midnight, filled with the same sense of tenderness and longing and infinite possibility that have been the hallmarks of the thousands of kisses that have come before. She sniffles softly, and he watches her beautiful blue eyes rapidly well with tears as her fingertips gently touch the stitches above his left eye.

"Don't ever scare me like that again, Brian. Watching you walk away from me and then coming home and finding you like that . . ."

A tear rolls down her cheek and her trembling hand clutches at his sweatshirt, just above his heart. "It was devastating," she sobs. "I love you, Brian. I really love you. I don't want anything bad to ever happen to you. I don't want to lose you."

"I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here. Everything's going to be okay."

He repeats the last statement over and over as he cradles her head against his chest, stroking her hair until her breathing returns to normal. He dries her cheeks with his sleeve, and kissing her forehead, he tells her, "I'll never walk away from you again, Margaret. I promise."

He soothingly caresses the warm skin of her neck, and his fingertips brush against the thin gold chain of the necklace he'd placed under her hand earlier this morning.

"The coordinates of our house," she says softly, smiling through her tears, as she clasps the small, engraved pendant of a compass rose in her hand.

"I fell in love with you in this house," he says, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear and tracing the shell of her ear with his index finger like he's done so many times before. "You were right. This house is so much more than just a house. It's a home, and it's ours. This is where we said "I love you" to each other for the first time and where we've built a really great life together. And I just want for us to keep doing that. Together. You and me."

Taking her hands in his, he sweeps his thumbs across her knuckles and he feels both panicked and calm at the same time. She's the only one who makes him feel this way, and his heart feels like it'll burst at any moment from the overwhelming magnitude of all the the things he wants to confess—words that seem to have been building up inside him over the course of his lifetime, words he now knows were only ever meant to be said to her.

"You're my bright star and my true north. Come hell or high water, I'll always find my way back to you, my love. Always," he promises her.

She leans forward to touch her forehead to his, sniffling softly as she nuzzles his nose. Her breath is warm and sweet against his lips, her voice like a heavenly choir when she whispers his name.

"I've never been one for New Year's resolutions, but I want you to know that I love you. I love you so much, sweetheart. And I promise you that I'll still love you tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. And every single day of this year," he says, bringing her hands to his lips and sealing his promise with a soft kiss.

"Lucky me," she says, the sound of her voice made even more beautiful when it's interwoven with her sparkling laughter, and the mischievous glint in her eye outshines even the light of the rising sun when she informs him, "It's a leap year, Mr. Addison."

The warm glow in the center of his chest rapidly spreads throughout his body. Even in the depths of winter, she makes everything feel as carefree as summertime. His face breaks into a wide grin and his hands make their way underneath the blanket to pull her into his lap. Her hands hold onto the corners of the blanket, and there's the most lovely blush of pink in her cheeks when she slides her arms around his neck, inviting him inside the yellow blanket with her.

"Well then, Mrs. Langston," he says in a low, seductive voice, "lucky me."

He can feel her smiling against his lips once again, and he can feel the joy in her heart when she tells him in between kisses that she loves him very much. They breathe each other in slowly and deeply, and as their tongues reacquaint themselves with each other and slow-dance together that morning, it is in the sweetness of Margaret's kiss that he can taste the coming of spring.

The golden light from the first sunrise of a new year breaks through the trees, and it's as if the world is truly beginning anew, with him and Margaret being the only two people in all of Arcadia who are awake at this exact moment to experience it. In the calm after the storm, it's just the two of them—snuggled together beneath that yellow blanket and laughing softly, completely lost in each other's eyes and more in love than ever.

Running his fingers through her hair, he touches his forehead to hers and he thinks to himself, _Lucky us_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All song lyrics © Jamie Lawson
> 
> Playlist for "Somewhere Only We Know":  
> 1\. Ever the Same by Rob Thomas  
> 2\. Maybe Not Tonight by Glen Hansard  
> 3\. Come Back to Me by Trading Yesterday  
> 4\. Peace by O.A.R.  
> 5\. Wrapped in Your Arms by Fireflight  
> 6\. On Your Side by Pete Yorn  
> 7\. Need the Sun to Break by James Bay  
> 8\. Fragile Lullaby by Sebastian Wocker
> 
> To Princetonian: For all the long conversations we've shared, from the early morning walks on the beaches of Malibu to the late-night drinks on Stone Street in Manhattan. Thank you for being my bright star and my true north.


End file.
